And Then a Butterfly Flapped Its Wings
by OyHumbug
Summary: Sometimes the destruction of the individual can be more powerful than the decimation of the collective.
1. Prologue

**Title**: And Then a Butterfly Flapped Its Wings  
**Category**: Arrow  
**Genre**: Angst, Drama, Romance (eventually)  
**Ship**: Olicity  
**Rating**: R  
**Disclaimer**: I own neither the characters presented in this story nor the show from which they originate. Unfortunately.  
**Summary**: Sometimes the destruction of the individual can be more powerful than the decimation of the collective.  
_**A/N**: If you continue on and read this, there will be another, more explanatory author's note at the end of the prologue. However, before that, a warning: this is not a light story. It's dark, and it's heavy, and it deals with some very serious issues – one in particular, rape. And it does so in very graphic detail – not for the sake of gratuitous violence but because I felt it was necessary to really get into the headspaces of these characters. While you could skip the middle portion of this prologue, the rape will continue to be a driving factor of this story and will be referenced in chapters that follow. Secondly, if you are a Tommy fan, this might not be the story for you either. While I won't say any more now, just now that I did not write or post this without serious deliberation and that I feel there is justification and a basis for the direction in which I took these characters. I hope that you will come on this journey with me. So far, I have this prologue and four additional chapters of this story written, and, while difficult and emotional, it has also been an extremely gratifying challenge. If you do not read this, I will understand. _

_Thanks,  
Charlynn_

**And Then a Butterfly Flapped Its Wings**

**Prologue**

Tommy Merlyn was a lot of things, but he wasn't an idiot... no matter what other people thought.

The problem was that he was never considered on his own merit. Instead, he was always measured against everyone else in his life and, ultimately, found lacking. He didn't have a head for business like his father; he didn't have a head of hair like Oliver's. He wasn't a do-gooder like Laurel or her father; he, unlike Thea, had lost all his innocence too many years back to even pretend like he might find it again; and he wasn't poised and self-possessed like Moira. Oh, he had his skills, but they either weren't valued, or, worse, they weren't even noticed.

For one, he could mix a mean martini, and, no, that wasn't because he had spent the last few months of his life managing a club. It also had nothing to do with the fact that he had spent a good portion of his youth living inside of one liquor bottle after another. And, besides, Tommy wasn't a gin or vodka kind of guy; he preferred scotch... just like his dad. He just couldn't hold his scotch as well as Malcolm Merlyn. Rather, Tommy could mix martinis and any other drink imagined or otherwise, because he was good at following directions, at reading recipes. In fact, he could cook – and well, too. But most people didn't stick around long enough in his life for him to feel comfortable sharing that part of himself with them, and, for those who did, they didn't want to see him as anything more than a pale imitation of everyone else.

Tommy was also adept at puzzles. Be they word or made up of images, he just had a knack for seeing what wasn't there and fitting those missing pieces in. But besides making him an excellent contestant for _Wheel of Fortune_ or preparing him for his golden years in the nursing home, puzzle solving was not a brag-able... or bankable... skill. Neither was gin-rummy, darts, or knowing what size of shoe a woman wore just by looking at her feet. So, Tommy kept these _talents_, just like his interest and ability in cooking, to himself.

Finally, Tommy Merlyn was extremely observant. Perhaps the foot thing could be lumped in with this aspect of his personality, but he liked to think of them as separate. Maybe he even had a foot fetish. However, whether his knowledge of shoe sizes was connected or not, that did not detract from the fact that he watched people – that he studied them, learned them, understood them. This is how he knew that there was more than just years of friendship and co-chairing charity boards between his father and Moira; how he knew that, despite dating him, Laurel was still in love with his once/still/former best friend; and how he knew that Oliver was not in love with Laurel... no matter what he might think.

The only problem with his little parlor trick – the stellar observation technique, not the darts – was that, oftentimes, he learned things about people that he really didn't want to know and that, sometimes, he learned things about people that they didn't even know about themselves. But Oliver's lack of self-awareness was a much bigger problem – not only because it was preventing Laurel from moving on but also because it was something Tommy couldn't control.

Ever since they were children, there were two things that Tommy could depend upon: one, as previously mentioned, was never measuring up to anyone – especially Oliver, and, two, was his ability to manage Oliver. While he was often the one egging Oliver on, he was also the only person who could reel him back in when necessary. In this way, he was a steadying presence in Oliver's life. Before the island and everything that came with it, he was Oliver Queen's better behaved – not good but better – best friend. During the five years Oliver was gone, he was Moira, and Thea, and Laurel's reminder of Ollie. He knew of and told all the best Oliver stories, and, while he wasn't the real thing, he often made a pretty good, close enough, as good as they could get facsimile. While he had missed his friend, with him gone, Tommy had shone better and brighter in the eyes of those people Oliver had left behind. But then Oliver returned.

Tommy had been thrilled when he learned that his pseudo-brother was alive and kicking after all. Sure, five years had passed, but nothing could change them. They were Ollie and Tommy; Tommy and Ollie. His best friend would return, and they'd go back to how things were before their world got spun on its ear. Oliver would drink too much, sleep around too much, fuck up too much, and he'd be right there to both make it better and to look like the better man in comparison. Only, it was Oliver who was better. After five years of _being dead_, Oliver came back stronger. Better looking. More sensitive. More interested in being a functioning member of society... or so he had everyone fooled. More dedicated to his family and friends. And in comparison – just like always – Tommy had looked like second best all over again.

Even this, he could have handled. He would have adapted. Plus, after a while, that back from a deserted island shine would have worn off his once-upon-a-time best friend. He would have found a way to take care of Oliver and, in turn, take care of everyone they both loved; he would have become his unflappable sidekick once again... only, that role was now more literal than Tommy could ever have imagined, and he certainly wasn't the friend filling it. No, instead, that was Oliver's trusty ex-special forces driver/bodyguard, and, while Laurel might be a damsel, and while she oftentimes found herself in distress, she wasn't Oliver's lady fair anymore either. No, that role now belonged to one Felicity Smoak.

Oh, Oliver had been careful. He had tried to have his cake and eat it, too, and he had almost succeeded in doing so. Tommy pushed Laurel away before she could run away, and Oliver had his little blonde piece on the side. Sure, he knew that Oliver wasn't sleeping with Felicity. Rather, she was the secret brains (and beauty) behind his brawn. Tommy wasn't sure for how long Oliver had been sneaking the woman into Verdant every night, but he had no doubt that Felicity was the only woman in Oliver's life that he had shared all of his vigilante-self with. In fact, their connection would still have been on the down-low if it wasn't for Oliver's behavior that day at Tommy's office. Something had just seemed... off about his former best friend, and, while Tommy wasn't Felicity Smoak, he could tickle QWERTY. His father was also paranoid (after what happened to his mother, of course), so he had cameras inside of Merlyn Global that even his security guards didn't know about. Additionally, Tommy knew how to place a phone call. So, after a little digging and even more authorizing of others to do some digging, he had learned of one very fetching IT girl's presence in Oliver's life... and of the trojan she had placed in his father's system.

His dad was dealing with the trojan; Tommy was dealing with the techie.

Or, well, at least he was dealing with how the techie influenced his life.

Felicity had no idea, and Oliver himself was clueless – no great shocker there, but Tommy saw. Observant, remember? He saw the way his former best friend looked at the computer nerd. He saw the trust, and friendship, and attraction, and need. He saw the connection. He saw the faith and faithfulness that Oliver had no idea how to handle, let alone recognize, the faith and faithfulness that Oliver had never directed towards anyone else in his life. Not even Laurel. He saw the love. And, what Oliver didn't know, Tommy was going to use to his advantage. Maybe Laurel still thought that she was in love with Oliver, but she didn't even know him. All Tommy had to do was put a blonde, Felicity sized bug in Laurel's ear, and she wouldn't rest until she uncovered the truth, and, once she did, everything would right itself once again. Oliver would be the cad, and Tommy would be the better man by comparison. For the first time since his once best friend washed back up in Starling City, Tommy's life would be recognizable again.

Tommy was just about to cross the street in order to finish his trip to Laurel's apartment building when he looked up and saw his control slip even further away.

…

"_You?"_

Tommy Merlyn was the last person Felicity expected to find when she opened her door. It was late for guests, but that wasn't the reason for her surprise. After all, neither she nor Tommy ran in circles known for their prompt bedtimes. But friend or foe, acquaintance or stranger – those labels would have made more sense. A friend stopped by for obvious reasons – a foe, too. An acquaintance had a reason to darken her doorstep, and a stranger could have been excused as random. But Tommy? Tommy didn't fit into any of those categories. If Felicity had an address book, and if she divided it by those categories (obviously, skipping the strangers), Tommy would hover somewhere in a limbo all his own.

She knew of him because he was a Merlyn; she knew him because of her connection to Oliver, and she could only assume that the very same connection was what made her a blip on Tommy's radar... only, Tommy was denying Oliver's place in his life, so why would he care about Oliver's place in hers? Why would he come to see her? Perhaps she should have been more concerned about _how _Tommy knew where to come in order to see her, but Felicity was a realist. While she took as many precautions as she could to keep her personal life private, Tommy Merlyn had more than enough resources at his disposal to track down a lowly IT girl... even one who helped The Hood.

"Miss Smoak," he greeted her. He was leaning against her doorjamb as though every bone in his body had turned to jello and his muscles had liquified. It was a lazy pose which belied the obvious tension rolling off of him in smothering waves. His empty grin did nothing to help the contradiction. "Felicity. Can I call you Felicity?" Before she could answer – a decided _no_, Tommy was already talking once again. "Oliver's _Joy_."

She sighed, already exasperated with and tired of the conversation. While she had no qualms about losing sleep and falling behind on... well, her life... because of her duties as Oliver's _Marshall Flinkman_, those duties did not extend to babysitting a petulant and moody Tommy Merlyn. "What do you want, Mr. Merlyn?"

"I want a lot of things – and, please, Mr. Merlyn is my father, but I've long since accepted the fact that the things I want, Oliver gets."

"Well, he's not here, so..."

"Oh, I know exactly where our boy wonder is, _Oliver's-Delight_. The question is: do you?"

"Look, it's late, and I..."

"It's not that late," Tommy interrupted her.

"... and I'm not in the mood to play your games. So, if you would just..."

"Oliver's fucking my girlfriend. Well, actually," Tommy amended, faking a casual glance down to his watch before looking back up only to glare at her. Felicity inhaled sharply. "By now, he's probably either moved on to round two, or he left. Ollie's not known for his cuddling skills. Laurel told me."

That stung. Not the lack of cuddling, because, actually, Felicity found that interesting, and, if she wasn't getting such weird vibes from Tommy in that moment, she probably would have analyzed why Oliver refused to cuddle with the woman he was supposedly in love with, the woman he had survived hell on earth for, but it hurt that Oliver was with Laurel. That he had slept with her. Because they were in the middle of a fight for not only their own lives but the survival of their entire city. Because Laurel had already managed to come between Oliver and Digg once, and Felicity feared what would happen if she came between them a second time. Because Laurel obviously wasn't ready to be starting anything with Oliver if Tommy's presence on Felicity's doorstep was any indication, so her friend was going to get hurt before everything was said and done. Because she didn't want Oliver to be with anyone but her.

That last reason was both unwanted and unwelcome – a messy complication _no one _needed, so Felicity pushed it away. And then she got angry, and, when Felicity got angry, she tended to hit below the belt. "Actually, I thought I heard that you broke up with her, so, yeah, open season. All's fair in love and lust."

She expected Tommy to get mad as well, but he just quipped, "don't forget guilt and obsession as well."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, Laurel _thinks _that she's in love with Oliver, but she's really just in love with this imaginary version of him that she made up in her head years ago _and _with the idea of being that pretend Ollie's Mrs. Queen. As for Oliver... Well, my former best friend really doesn't know what being in love means. Sure, he feels guilty towards Laurel because of Sara, and because of all the other women he cheated on her with, and because of, you know, dying on her, and because he's keeping his nefarious, nighttime shenanigans from her. And we can't forget the fact that Oliver is obsessed with his own guilt, but he's not in love with her, _Oliver's-Bliss_, and I think we both know why." He paused dramatically, but she didn't cooperate by hazarding a guess. Not that she had any clue as to what Tommy was driving at. "Because he's in love with you."

"And you're obviously drunk," Felicity responded immediately. Really, there was just no other explanation for _anything _that had happened since the moment she heard the knock on her door.

"Actually, I'm stone-cold sober, but, if that's your way of inviting me in a for a little night-cap..." Tommy's sentence fell off as he pushed himself upwards and forwards, making as though he was going to come into her apartment.

Felicity reacted instinctively, slamming the door shut only to have it catch on a shoe – a very male shoe, a shoe she did not want to come any closer. As she struggled to force him to leave – pushing as hard as she could against the painted wood beneath her hands, she said, "you need to go."

"Hmm...," Tommy pretended to think, absently tapping an index finger against his chin. Smirking at her, he countered, "but, no, _Oliver's-Contentment_. I think I'll stay." And then he pushed back, forcing his way into her apartment and making her stumble backwards, tripping over her own feet and the quick reversal of her momentum against the door. When she heard her lock click into place, the fear she had been struggling to ignore tumbled heavily into place alongside her heart. Quickly, she scrambled as far away from him as she could, only stopping when her back met a wall, and, even then, Felicity tried to make herself smaller, tried to melt her body into the buttercup yellow she had spent weeks debating over when she had first moved into her apartment; Tommy just took a seat upon her couch – perfectly at ease, perfectly ignorant of her alarm.

He crossed one leg over the other's knee, lifting his hips momentarily in order to sink further into her sofa's cushions. "I must say, _Oliver's-Merriment_, that I'm a bit taken aback by your lack of reaction towards my news. I thought, if anyone was going to be as hurt and angry as I am, it'd be you, _Oliver's-Exhilaration._"

When he had asked her if he could call her Felicity, the idea had been distasteful, but now she just wished he would use her name – anything to show that Tommy was still capable of seeing her as an individual, separate from Oliver. The more he kept referring to her as belonging to Oliver, the more she realized that, in Tommy's eyes, she was no longer a person; she was a thing, a toy – something to be taken off the shelf, played with, used, and then tucked neatly back away, already forgotten. She also knew that there would be no reasoning with such a mindset. So, as she continued to talk with Tommy, Felicity sought to get help, to get away. Both her cell phone and keys, however, were on the opposite side of her living room, casually tossed onto her desk.

Inching around the perimeter of the space, keeping her back plastered to the walls, Felicity said, "I don't... I don't know what you mean." If she wouldn't have known without a shadow of a doubt that she had said the words, Felicity wouldn't have recognized her own voice. It was so... meek and hesitant.

"What," Tommy asked rhetorically. "You're just friends?" His tone mocked her. "Friends who spend their nights together. Friends who know each other's deepest and darkest secrets. Friends who break the law _and _break into billion dollar companies together." He snorted derisively. "Yeah, try selling that to someone who didn't spend the entire afternoon looking at security footage of the two of you."

She was almost there – mere feet away from the promise of hope and help – and so focused on just getting away that, instead of saying anything, Felicity only hummed a non-committal response. Fingers outstretched, lengthened and spread wide, she felt her touch just barely graze against the metal of her keys before a hand that was decided not hers swooped them up. She watched in mute horror as Tommy shoved both her keys and her cell into the pockets of his slacks, any last traces of put upon good will disappearing.

"That wasn't very smart."

Not thinking about where she was going, just that she needed to move, Felicity backpedaled away from him, but he stalked after her. It wasn't until she was cornered – Tommy's body blocking her path to her door, only leaving her with the option of going deeper into her apartment and further away from escape – that Felicity realized her mistake. In her desperation, she found herself asking, shrieking, "get away; stay away! I don't want you to come any closer to me."

But he didn't listen, and she kept yelling, her eyes ping-ponging back and forth as she searched for something, anything to make him stay away. "You need to leave; I want you to leave." She lunged, reaching for the biggest, thickest, heaviest coding book she could she find and coming up swinging, the arch of the text colliding solidly with the side of Tommy's face. And then Felicity didn't think, she didn't stop to see if her actions were enough to make him backdown. She just ran.

Bare feet slipping on her clean, smooth wood floors, she sprinted towards her hallway. If she could just reach her bedroom, maybe she'd have enough time to barricade the door. Even if she only bought herself a few minutes, her tablet was in her bedroom. She'd be able to email Digg. She could throw her window open wide and scream until somebody heard and called for help. It wasn't much, but those small hopes were the only lines of defense Felicity had left, so she clung to them. Arms outstretched towards her bedroom door, she was just a few steps away when she was snapped backwards, a fist clenched agonizingly in her hair pulling her away. Tears sprang to her eyes. Before she could even adjust to the sudden shift in her momentum, Felicity was being flung forward, the side of her head first connecting with the wall before the rest of her body followed.

"You stupid bitch," Tommy roared.

But she was already screaming over top of him. "No, no, no! Don't do this! You can't do this!"

He shook her, roared at her to, "shut up; shut up!," over and over again. Both of his hands falling to her shoulders, biting into her shoulders, Felicity lost count of how many times she was slammed into the wall. Somehow, though, she found the strength... or, at that point, maybe it was just instinct... to fight back. She twisted, and thrashed, and wrenched her body in any and every direction, trying to break free. She flailed her arms, but they found no purchase – Tommy's grip too tight, and her legs were useless, for they were barely managing to hold her up. It wasn't until she threw her head back and made connection with his chin that she was finally able to break away, stumbling towards her bedroom door once more before she even fully grasped the fact that she was free. She made it one step, then two, and even a third before a vice-like hold latched onto her right arm, the force of the grip sending shooting dangers and then numbness rushing down all the way to her fingers. Using her own impetus against her, Tommy spun her around and back into the wall, her breath knocked out of her in one terrifying collision. She started to panic.

It was a struggle just to breathe. Chest tight, Felicity gulped for air, but no matter what she did – between her ever more desperate cries for mercy and the abuse her body had already sustained, she couldn't get enough oxygen. Dizziness set in. And then he smacked her, backhanded her.

Her head ricocheted, her temple landing, cracking against the edge of the molding around her bedroom doorway. She whimpered. A thin trickle of blood slithered down the side of her face. He was yelling still, ranting, but Felicity couldn't place his words. She just stood there, exhausted and too afraid to move as Tommy started shaking her once more. It wasn't until one of his hands dropped to grab the waistband of her sleep shorts that she reacted again.

Felicity had long since stopped being aware of how she was still fighting back; she just was. Her fingers fell to push his away, and, when that didn't work, she scratched and clawed. "No, Tommy, no!" She was crying out, but he didn't seem to hear her. Hysterically, she wracked her mind for something she could say, something she could do to get through to him. "If you do this... If you do this, there's no coming back, Tommy. It'll always be there between you. Every time he sees you, he'll see... this. He'll never be able to forgive you, Tommy. If you do this, Oliver will hate you."

He went deadly still, his hands falling away from her. For a moment, Felicity believe that maybe, just maybe, she had found the one thing that could make Tommy stop. But then he smirked, and bile rose in her throat to choke her. "No, he'll hate himself."

She didn't think; she just reacted. Lifting a knee and thrusting it up as hard as she could into Tommy's midsection, at the same time, she used both hands to push him away and, once more, was running from him. This time, she made it into her room. Eyes darting in distress, she searched for a weapon; she looked for something she could use to defend herself. But it was too late. In her fear, her bedroom was foreign to her. Nothing looked familiar. And then Tommy was back – tackling her, landing on top of, pushing her forwards and down. As she fell, she collided with her dresser – her chest hitting the furniture's lip, while her fingers scrambled for purchase. All she managed to do was drag down some jewelry and bottles of perfume with them.

She landed on her side momentarily before Tommy's weight pushed her down onto her back. They struggled. For reasons she did not understand, he ripped her glasses from her face, tossing them aside. Then, as he groped and tugged at her shorts once again, she twisted her body in an effort to break free, to deter his seeking, destroying hands. At first, she used her own hands in an attempt to push him away. She scratched, and pulled, and pinched, and pushed to little effect. "You can't do this! Don't do this! I can't... why are you doing this to me?" He just seemed to paw at her even harsher the more she fought him... not that Felicity was going to stop trying to reason with him, stop trying to get away. When her fingers accidentally found a broken shard of glass, she felt a flicker of hope.

Felicity would never be sure what gave her away. Perhaps she tensed in anticipation, or maybe she simply sobbed in momentary relief, but no sooner had her digits of her left hand wrapped themselves around the shard of glass but Tommy was surging against her – his knees holding down her legs while his hands encircled her wrists, leaving instant bruises, and tugging her arms over her head at an awkward, excruciating angle. Repeatedly, he slammed her hands down, her knuckles being torn open on the broken debris from her dresser, until she was forced to drop the only weapon she had managed to find. With no other options remaining, she did the only thing she could still think of: she rammed her head out and up, bashing it into his.

The pain was intense and immediate, but Tommy faltered long enough that Felicity was able to scramble away, crawling on her hands and knees. She wasn't sure what to do next or where to go. She just... tried. And she roared, "no, no; you can't do this; you can't do this," in a broken, endless lope. She was within an arms length of her bed when his full weight came crashing down on top of her once more. She instantly collapsed, crying out in agony.

Everything hurt. There was no temporary reprieve. As soon as Felicity could take a hampered, hindered breath, Tommy was ripping at her clothes once more, and she was straining to stop him. It wasn't until her fists, flailing blindly backwards, made contact with his sides that he spoke again. "That's it. If you want it rough..."

The threat was left hanging. "No, no, I don't want... this. I want you to stop. I want you to leave me alone, to leave. Tommy, no! Don't! Don't do this! No!" As one of his hands held her face down against the floor, she heard the other pull something from her nightstand beside them. From the sounds of the breaking bulb, it was her lamp. A grunt later, her head was released, only for her arms to be dragged forward – out and above her head, Tommy making quick work of lashing her wrists to the metal of her bed frame.

"Didn't know I was a boyscout, did you? Well, not for long. I joined, because I thought it would make my mom proud, but Ollie thought it was lame, and he made fun of my uniform, so I quit... but not before I learned how to tie one hell of a knot."

His mother. She latched onto the thought. So, as one of Tommy's hands went back to holding her face down while the other ripped, and snatched, and removed her shorts, she pleaded, "your mother, Tommy, she wouldn't want you to do this – not to me, not to yourself. A mother... any mother... would be devastated if her son..." She choked on the words; she choked on her inability to take in just one deep breath; she choked on what now felt like the inevitable. "And Laurel. You love Laurel. You're here, and you're hurt, and you're angry because of Laurel, but, Tommy, she'll never look at you the same way again, not if you..."

"And how will she ever find out," he interrupted her. "You and me? This is going to be our little secret. Because you can't tell Oliver. He'll blame himself, and he'll never be able to look at you the same way again, and he'll come after me, and he'll kill me, and you don't want my blood on your hands or his. And, if you can't tell your precious Oliver, then you sure as hell can't tell the cops. No one will ever know."

She heard him release the closure on his pants, his descending zipper a machine gun's tattoo throughout her room. And, if she had screamed before, then she shrieked now, bellowed now, wailed now – her voice feral. She bucked as hard as she could, but his left hand still held her face down, and his knees moved to push her legs open wide and, once more, hold her thighs down. But it wasn't until she felt the fabric of her underwear being ripped away that Felicity resorted to begging. "Oh god, no. Please, Tommy. Please, Tommy. Please, Tommy. Don't do this; don't do this; don't do this; don't do this; don't do this." Then a fist came down to crush against the small of her back, the knuckles stabbing into her vertebrae, and he was inside of her.

After all the pain, after all the fear, it was over quickly. She bit through her lip after yelling herself hoarse. The blood ran down her chin. Despite the fact that the light was still on overhead, Tommy didn't notice. He didn't see. Because he couldn't. She had long since failed to register with him – her face, her voice. While he was attacking her, while he was talking to her, before he had even arrived on her doorstep, Felicity had become nothing more to him than a tool, a pawn, a weapon. He had stripped her of her identity.

The night and everything else around her disappeared and became just sounds. A zipper being quickly raised. A pocketknife being opened. A cord being severed. Footsteps crunching over broken glass. Keys and a cell phone landing on a wooden surface. Distantly, Felicity noticed that the palms of her hands were cut from where she had curled them into the frame of her bed... the same bed that she had managed to move several inches away from the wall as she, tied up and pinned down, still had continued to fight. Detached, she felt the cuts and scrapes, the bruises.

An indifferent, dismissive boot turned her over. "Here," Tommy said, bending down to put her scratched and bent glasses back upon her face. "You can have these back now. We couldn't have you wearing them before, though, because Tommy Merlyn doesn't fuck nerds."

"No," Felicity met his hard gaze unflinchingly – her belittled and used body bare from the waist down. "You just rape them."

And then he... he just left.

Felicity struggled to her feet, her legs nearly giving out on her several times before she eventually managed to stand. She was weak and practically too weary to support her own weight. But then she was screaming her rage, and her horror, and her disgust, and she lashed out. She destroyed. What wasn't already broken soon was. Because her fury was safe.

Eventually, in sheer exhaustion, she collapsed, her body finding a wall and sliding down it until she was sitting on the floor. Still, though, Felicity refused to cry. Her tears of apprehension and discomfort from before had long since been consumed by the madness. And she knew, if she gave into her aching need to sob, she might not ever stop again.

…

He was too late.

But it wasn't Laurel who Oliver found dying at CNRI; it was Tommy. He was buried beneath rubble, weak and giving up. Maybe it was because he always saw his friend as invincible, or perhaps it was because Tommy's own father was behind The Undertaking, but Tommy's was the one death Oliver had never feared. And now it was happening.

Tommy was oddly silent as Oliver worked to free him. While he talked, his friend just... watched him – as if disbelieving that Oliver was really there, that he was helping him, that he _would _help him. So much was broken between them, but Oliver never thought Tommy would ever look at him in that way. It made him work and fight that much harder. And one of them had to, because it was obvious that Tommy had given up, that he had accepted his fate. It was only when Oliver removed the last block of concrete and he saw the rebar piercing his friend's torso that he, too, knew Tommy's death was imminent. Not that he said that, though.

He was in the middle of offering up some empty reassurances when Tommy's words stopped him cold. It wasn't what he said but how he said it – like it was the words bubbling up inside of him that were killing him and not the fact that a building had collapsed on top of him. Despite the flames licking around them, Oliver shivered.

"Tell her."

"Laurel," Oliver questioned. But confirmation was unnecessary. There was no other woman in Tommy's life more important than Laurel, no one else he would be thinking about while he was dying.

"No," his best friend choked out. Oliver wasn't sure if it was blood, pain, or smoke choking him. Perhaps a little of all three. "Felicity."

A gasp in his ear, and his shiver became a chill. It started with his face and then descended through the rest of his body. He suddenly felt so cold that it burned.

As Tommy struggled to talk, as Tommy struggled to breathe, to live, flashes of Felicity from that past day bombarded him. She had been quieter than normal, quieter than he'd ever seen her. She'd also seemed smaller, softer, like a shadow.

"Tell her..."

Those flashes became images, became memories.

_Felicity walking into the foundry wearing leggings and the largest, thickest sweater Oliver had ever seen. 'What,' she defended, refusing to meet his gaze. 'This basement's draftier than an abandoned, haunted house.'_

The excuse was believable enough. After all, Felicity was a girl. Girls tended to get cold easier than guys. It was a fact that he had taken advantage of many times before the island.

_Felicity shying away from Dig when he stepped up behind her, peering over her shoulder. 'More cowbell! One for both of you.'_

He had dismissed her jumpiness as exhaustion and worry. After all, they were all suffering under a similar weight.

_Felicity shrugging, a decided lack of a blush accompanying the gesture that was meant to be self-deprecating when asked about her obvious stiffness, the bruises on her face, her lack of glasses. Her words, which should have been humorous, rang just as hollow. 'I fought the rug, and the rug won.'_

She _was _clumsy. Or maybe Oliver had believed her, because, in that moment, he had to. Because it was easier. If he had questioned the validity of her excuses, then there was a risk he'd learn something he really didn't want to know, something that he couldn't handle – not when the rest of the world was falling down around him, not when he needed to know that just one thing, just one person he cared about, was going to be alright.

"... I'm sorry."

But, just like that, Oliver knew.

Roaring in pain, and anger, and distress, and so much goddamn guilt it was Oliver who was now choking, he wrapped his hands around the rusty with blood, rusty with age rebar and pulled it from Tommy's abdomen. It wasn't until he had plunged the bar back into Tommy, this time piercing his heart, that Oliver realized he was crying.

His world hadn't just fallen apart that night; it had been shattered.

Broken, he stood and walked away. The only sound Oliver heard was the destruction around him. His comms were silent.

_**A/N2**: Alright, so that justification I was talking about... First, let me say that this story was born from two thoughts: one, that Tommy was a wasted character and his death, though not a wasted opportunity, was less than it could have been, and, two, that he had an unbelievable propensity to go dark, and I regret the fact that the show didn't utilize this. Secondly, he had a temper. Sure, he oftentimes disguised it with flippancy and flirtation, with jokes and jocularity, but it was there nonetheless. Then, there was also the offhand reference Lance made of Tommy 'roofying anyone lately' or something along those lines in 1x05. Add this all together, and I feel that the situation presented in this story was a possibility for the character of Tommy. Like I said, this wasn't something plotted on a whim, and I sincerely hope that no one is offended by it. If you've made it this far with me, I'd love to hear what you have to say/what you think._

Thanks,  
Charlynn

_P.S. I will be breaking up the heaviness of this story with some lighter posts. I already have the next one shot in the Devil Series penned, and I have a ficlet planned, too. Look for these soon._


	2. Chapter One

_A/N: Hello everyone! I apologize for the longer than usual wait between chapters. It wasn't my intention, but it's a busy time of year for me personally and professionally. With that said, I'll try not to let so much time pass by between chapters again. The good news is that I've done a little more work on this story since the prologue was put up, so, even though I haven't posted, I haven't left these characters alone this whole time. Also, as promised, I've been working on some lighter fare, too. I'll try to post the next one shot in the 'Devil Series' this weekend, too. Finally, thank you to everyone who was willing to give this story a chance. I recognize how emotionally draining such a story can be, but I hope that you'll stay with me as this tale progresses. As always, I'd love to hear what you think - good, bad, and everything in between, because I enjoy engaging with readers. And now that's enough from me. I'd say enjoy, but with this story... _

_~Charlynn~_

**Chapter One**

She almost left.

She wanted to leave.

She just... couldn't get his voice out of her head. His apology meant nothing. It was too little, too late, and it was only said because he knew he was going to die, and he was seeking... what? Redemption? Grace? A balm to his conscience? Felicity didn't know, and she didn't care. If he had been truly sorry, he wouldn't have... in the first place. All Tommy's so-called apology did was bleed into her memories of the night before, his 'I'm sorry' becoming an accompanying tattoo to the abuse his body had wrought upon hers.

And then there was Oliver... Now, he knew. Now, he'd blame himself – and, not just for what happened to her, but also for the consequences of Tommy's actions. For killing him. Because she had no doubt of the actions which had been the companion to the sounds she had heard over the comms. And it wouldn't matter, in the future, that both she and Oliver would know that Tommy would have died that night no matter what Oliver did; all he would remember was why a lifetime of friendship ended in yet even more blood upon his hands, that deadly cocktail of guilt and the feeling of not having done enough slowly poisoning him.

That's why she stayed.

It had nothing to do with the fact that, if she left, Felicity really didn't know where she would go. Even with the destruction of the basement surrounding her, the foundry still felt safer than anywhere else. It was where she still felt like she had a purpose, where she still knew who she was, the one place where she still felt like she had some... control.

She laughed bitterly, the sound ugly and harsh even to her own ears. To cling to a place that could give her the one thing that had caused... everything that had happened was oddly fitting, in a way. It was almost like coming full circle, and Felicity felt a tiny fissure of satisfaction, too, because, while Tommy's actions had stripped her of so much, he hadn't been able to take the only thing he had really sought.

It was an empty satisfaction, however, because she had no doubt that it would prove fleeting. As soon as Oliver returned to the foundry, her control would slip and crumble. She was only managing to hold onto herself, because she wanted to protect him. To keep him safe. To shelter him from the doubt, rage, and self-blame that were his ever-present shadows. But now he knew, and that darkness that followed him was about to consume him. Because of her, because of what had been done to her, because of what she had allowed to happen.

Logically, Felicity knew that no one else was to blame for Tommy's actions but Tommy, but, in the back of her mind, there still lingered a whisper of culpability. If she had fought harder, if she wouldn't have let him into her apartment in the first place... That was her shame taunting her, though, the burden of failed responsibility she wore like a mantle around her bruised neck. It would fade, much like those very same bruises, but Oliver's contrition wouldn't... at least, not without her help.

Felicity knew that, if the roles were reversed and it was Oliver who was beaten, and bloodied, and broken mentally and emotionally, the only thing that would sooth her fears would be to take care of him, to be there to help him shoulder those burdens. Plus, she knew that, until he saw her for himself again, he'd believe the worst. He'd live in that dark and damaged place inside of his soul, and it would quickly cripple him. So, while her mind thought needing Oliver was selfish, her heart – and she could no longer deny, at least to herself, that Oliver Queen was firmly planted deep inside of her heart – knew it would be more selfish to refuse him the chance to take care of her, to help shoulder her burdens... just like she would want and need to do for him.

She feared, however, what Oliver's reaction to the truth would be after he initially held her, helped her. Because he'd blame himself, he'd try to push her away... just as Tommy had taunted her into remaining silent, and that was something Felicity wasn't sure she'd be able to recover from. It would reinforce all her self-doubts, those seeds of fear about being abandoned having been planted long before and, now, allowed to flourish under the storm Tommy's actions had brought to her confidence. And, if Oliver pushed her away, she'd lose... everything she had left, because, not only would she lose him, but she'd lose the safety that came from purpose, the pieces of her identity that she liked the most, and the control those two things afforded her.

It was a war that waged itself inside of Felicity – a battle between self-preservation and saving Oliver, at least temporarily, from himself. But, even if she ran away and tried to delay the inevitable, she wouldn't just have everything that mattered taken from her; she'd be giving it up. And she couldn't do that – not to herself and certainly not to Oliver. So, even though it would kill her to see his pain, to feel him push her away, to watch him walk away, she stayed, because, somewhere between _'Felicity Smoak? Hi, I'm Oliver Queen.' _and that very moment, taking care of herself meant taking care of Oliver, protecting herself meant protecting Oliver, and loving herself meant...

"Felicity."

He didn't startle her. Despite the fact that she had been so lost in her thoughts that she never heard the door open, or his steps upon the stairs, or his progression across the room to come to a stop just a hairsbreadth in front of her, Felicity didn't jump or withdraw. Instead, she slowly lifted her face to look at him, to allow him to look at her. What she saw brought tears to her eyes, yet she still wouldn't cry.

Without a word, he reached for her. Despite the utter darkness, Oliver knew exactly where to reach for her. She had often wondered if, besides his wickedly awesome ninja skills, he also had preternaturally heightened vision... or maybe he just had the power to always see her.

Felicity's hands had been clenched into fists, her always manicured nails embedded deeply within the flesh of her palms until he touched her. Just a simple brushing of the pads of his fingers against the back of her hands made her release her grip in invitation, one he accepted. It wasn't until he was holding her hands within his own, his thumbs brushing rhythmically against the criss-crossing of cuts upon her knuckles that he spoke.

"When?"

She knew what he was asking, why he was asking... or, at least, she thought she did. He wanted to know where he had been instead of being with her. Though her answer would hurt him, a lie would hurt worse. "Last night."

_While you were with Laurel._

She didn't blame him, but he would blame himself.

A visible shudder went through him, but Oliver surprised her by not pulling away, by, if anything, holding onto her tighter. He closed his eyes but not before his heartache and despair washed over her favorite shade of blue. "And you didn't go alone, right? Please, tell me that you weren't alone."

This time, there was a disconnect between them. Felicity didn't know what those words were that he left unspoken. "Go where?"

His gaze flashed back open, locking with hers. The intensity behind it rocked her back, the only thing keeping her steady, his touch. "To the police, to the hospital, to report him, to get help."

"I... I didn't go," she stammered under the stupor of her confusion. For the first time since she had looked up to find him before her, her hysteria started to bubble up into her voice. "Oliver, I _couldn't_."

He didn't ask her why not; she didn't offer to explain.

"Felicity, you have to." When she went to argue, when she went to protest, he said, "Felicity, he could have... no, he _did_ hurt you. There could be... You could be..." Oliver half choked, half sobbed. "Please, you need to go to the hospital."

The fact that he was asking and not ordering told Felicity just how desperate Oliver was, how close he was to the edge. "Just the hospital?"

"For now."

"And I don't have to tell them anything?"

"Felicity, that's up to you," he promised her. "You just... your health. You need to be safe."

And she needed to keep him safe, so, if he needed her to go to the hospital, then she would. For him, for herself, for them.

While she silently thought through his request, Oliver seemed to interpret her quiet as hesitance. And maybe it was – a little bit, but it was more than that, too. "I'll go with you, if you... want."

That – Oliver offering to go with her to the hospital – snapped Felicity's attention back to the earnest, troubled, beautiful face above her. She bit her tender bottom lip, recognized the compulsion to shelter staring back at her, and nodded her assent. "Okay."

Oliver only released her to change. Five minutes later, as they left the basement together, one of his hands found hers once again, and he never let go.

…

It was impossible to hide from the truth of Felicity's injuries under the harsh florescent glare of the hospital's lights. The basement was gloomy and shadowed, easy to hide in, but the hospital brought everything into glaring focus. As he had waited beside Felicity, he had noticed the web of shallow cuts blanketing her hands – delicate hands, soft hands, hands that were always supposed to remain clean and untarnished. He had seen the bruises on her face where her makeup couldn't quite cover their blaring truths. He had realized that her lips weren't painted a new shade of lipstick; Felicity had bit through them. They were stained with her blood and with her pain.

And that was just what he could see on the little bit of skin that wasn't covered up. Imagining what her clothes hid made Oliver feel nauseous.

When they had arrived at the hospital, they had been greeted with pandemonium and mass chaos. In his determination to take care of Felicity, Oliver had somehow managed to forget everything else. He forgot Malcolm, his mother, and what their plan had cost the city of Starling; he forgot the lives that had been lost and those that still might be hanging in the balance; he forgot everyone and everything but the woman who never forgot to think about him. Even now, he was sitting in the waiting room rather than at Felicity's bedside, because, despite her own obvious and deserved need for comfort, she'd rather spare him than herself.

He had balked at the idea of being separated from her. Soon after they had arrived at the hospital, Felicity had been transferred from the emergency room to the Obstetrics, Gynecology, and Reproductive Sciences floor. Oliver wasn't sure if the move was to better treat Felicity or to protect her, because, as soon as the other patients in the emergency room realized she was there with him, the animosity had become nearly suffocating. For Oliver, it had been a reminder of yet another one of his failures; for Felicity, it had been the fire necessary to forge the steel of her back. In a blink of the eye, gone was the timid, shattered woman he had just been standing before and, in her place, was a champion, his champion.

It humbled Oliver to see that, despite the role he had played in her trauma, she still believed in him.

Because he had no doubt that it was his fault that she had been hurt – the barely concealed accusations in the judgmental gazes of the hospital staff served as confirmation of his own guilt. It was Tommy's hands which had rained the assault upon Felicity's body, but it was Oliver's actions which brought Tommy into her life, to her door. It was his actions which drove Tommy to hurt her.

When Oliver returned from the island, he had believed himself changed, but he was sitting in the hospital while Felicity underwent a PERK exam because, yet again, he had run away. While he didn't know what he felt for Laurel now, he did know what, prior to Tommy's confession, she had represented: the past. Being with Laurel was like being given a second chance to be the Oliver he was before the weight of his father's sins were placed upon his shoulders; before the truth about who he was had been revealed to him; before his mother lied, and lied, and lied and Tommy turned away from him. In his fear of failing the city he had sworn to protect – after all, he had fought Malcolm twice and had lost both times – and his hope that maybe he'd actually win and then his promise to his dad would be fulfilled, he had selfishly latched onto the one person who represented the innocence which had been stolen away from him.

Now, though, Oliver wasn't sure he even wanted that innocence back – not when the ramifications of it could hurt others just as much as or perhaps even more than the darkness that consumed him. His darkness had brought Felicity into his life, but it was his need to feel clean again which had bloodied her.

Sighing raggedly, Oliver lifted his hands to scrub wearily over his face. He was... exhausted yet, at the same time, oddly wired, too. Or perhaps that was the adrenaline still clinging to his body. The fight was over. Malcolm had been defeated. Tommy had been defeated. Now, it was time to heal – the city. Felicity. Oliver didn't, even for a second, believe that he deserved the same luxury. Instead, it was his job to rebuild Starling and to give Felicity the opportunity to rebuild herself. He just wasn't sure if that would be easier for her to do with him by her side or as far away from her as he could push himself.

"Mr. Queen?"

At the sound of the timid voice beside him, Oliver scrambled to his feet. "Yes?"

"You can come with me now," the nurse told him, already walking away and assuming he would follow.

He did.

The trip to Felicity's hospital room didn't take long. It was the middle of the night, and the floor was quiet. While new life had not stopped in the wake of so many losses that evening, the sense of normalcy which shrouded the maternity ward made it perhaps the only peaceful place remaining in Starling. Oliver felt like his presence there, though, was an intrusion and an insult. That weighed upon him. Despite how desperate he was to set his eyes upon Felicity once again, to reassure himself that she was still there with him, his feet felt like lead, his steps the drumbeat of an execution. With hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his jeans and his eyes constantly assessing for lurking danger, he stepped through the door the nurse held open for him.

And then he saw her.

Felicity had always been delicate, slight, and soft in his eyes, though she had quickly proven that her gentleness masked an inner strength and conviction greater than any he'd ever encountered before. But seeing her in that hospital bed, dwarfed by the baggy and drab – when had Felicity ever been anything less than colorful, that should have been his first clue that something was wrong – clothes she was once more wearing and the burden she carried, she had never looked smaller – so fragile and young. He crossed the room in just a few determined strides, his hands immediately finding and tangling with hers. The sigh of solace that slipped past her lips soothed him. After everything that had happened to her, Oliver knew that he didn't deserve her comfort, yet he found himself wondering, just like taking care of her made him feel better, if she found a kind of peace in reassuring him. If nothing else, he was grateful that his touch was the one, the only one, she didn't shy away from. While even the doctors and nurses made her uneasy, Felicity made it clear that she wanted him near.

"Miss Smoak has given me permission to speak plainly in front of you, Mr. Queen."

He nodded to show that the the doctor should continue.

"While more than 24 hours have passed since Miss Smoak was attacked, and while she has showered, and changed her clothes, and gone to the bathroom, we were still able to gather some evidence. We catalogued the injuries sustained, took samples, and are in the process of turning the rape kit over to the police."

All of this he had expected. Apparently, however, by the suddenly rigid set of her shoulders and the way she desperately gripped his hands, Felicity had not. "What? No. You can't."

Oliver would have had to be blind to miss the way the doctor's gaze cut to and then lingered on him. While the woman never lost sight of her professionalism, she also made it clear that she suspected Felicity of protecting him. And perhaps Felicity was... but not for the reasons the doctor believed. "It's the law, Miss Smoak." When Felicity went to protest further, the doctor added, "while you have the right to not report the crime or press charges, while I can't and neither can the cops compel you to give us a detailed account of what happened, and while you can further impede the investigation by withholding evidence, you have been raped, and there will be an investigation."

Felicity's gaze was wide with panic, focused entirely upon him. She whimpered. While he would do whatever she wanted, he was frankly confused as to why she was so against the idea of turning Tommy in... whether he was already dead or not. Felicity deserved justice... in whatever shape or form she could get it. Not that there was anything that could make what Tommy did to her alright, but surely there was something that could make it even just a little bit better.

When it became obvious that Felicity wasn't going to say anything else to the doctor, the woman turned to him once more. "Miss Smoak has suffered no permanent, physical damage, though she will be sore for a few weeks. I've written her a prescription for a mild pain medication. One of the nurses is having it filled now. As for everything else..." – the emotional and mental damage Tommy's actions had inflicted upon Felicity – "I would recommend counseling. We have several excellent staff members here that I could recommend, and there are support groups, too. The bottom line is that Miss Smoak needs to talk to someone. If she won't talk to me, and if she won't talk to the police, then perhaps she will talk to a therapist."

He let go of one of Felicity's hands to reach for the cards and pamphlets the doctor was holding out to him. "I'll..."

"No!"

Only to have his hand pulled away and back into Felicity's grasp.

He turned a questioning gaze upon her. "Felicity?"

She leaned towards him, into him, until her forehead rested against his. When she spoke, her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her. "I'll talk to you, I'll talk to Digg," she promised, she pleaded. "I know it's... selfish of me to ask that of you, but I... I can't talk to a stranger. I _can't_."

He watched her closely, looking to find and then understand the words she wouldn't say. It was a strange reversal of roles, because usually he was the taciturn one, and it was her penetrating, knowing eyes which stripped him of all his walls and left him bare and open before her. At first, Oliver could see nothing but her anxiety... which, given the situation, made sense. Of course, she'd be afraid. Of course, she'd be haunted by what had been done to her and scared to talk about it. To give it shape with words. But then he delved deeper into the tears and turbulence barely restrained in Felicity's haunted eyes, and he realized two things: one, that she hadn't allowed herself to cry yet and, two, that she didn't go to the hospital on her own, that she hadn't called the cops, and that she was refusing help from anyone besides he or Diggle because she was trying to protect his secret.

"Felicity," he breathed out, humbled by and frustrated with her loyalty. "That doesn't matter now, not in the face of..."

"Its matters to me," she vehemently protested, cutting him off. Lowering her voice once more so that only he could hear, she reiterated, "it matters to me."

And the only thing that mattered to him was doing what was best... even if he might not agree with it... for Felicity. "Okay," he promised her. She collapsed against him in relief.

Turning back towards the doctor whose gaze was slightly less accusing, Oliver asked, "you mentioned that a nurse was filling a prescription, so I assume Felicity is free to go; you're not admitting her?"

"I'm not admitting her," the doctor confirmed. "But her physical activity should be restricted, and Miss Smoak should refrain from sexual intercourse until she has had some more time to heal. I would recommend that she follow up with her regular gynecologist within the next week or two."

Oliver glared at the woman for the obviousness of what she had said; Felicity simply dismissed her by standing up, burrowing into his side, and murmuring, "Oliver will take care of me."

Her faith in him was unjustified, especially in light of the fact that he had already failed her, but nonetheless a welcome reprieve. Once more, he took one of her hands in his, swallowed down the blame that was threatening to overwhelm and suffocate him, and led her out into the night.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

They went back to the foundry.

It was pushing dawn, and they were both exhausted, but there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them that neither wanted to be separated yet. Felicity was thankful for this small favor. She neither had to ask Oliver to stay with her, nor confess that she absolutely refused to go back to her apartment. When everything else seemed to be destroyed around them, at least she could still depend upon their bond. For now.

She shook that thought away – physically, forcefully as they made their way into the basement. Although Oliver had installed a generator when constructing his little hideaway beneath the club, he didn't try to access it, let alone start it. So, between the coal mine blackness they were walking into by memory alone and their mutual weariness, their steps were unhurried, tentative – even Oliver's. It wasn't until they reached the bottom of the metal stairs that he let go of her hand. She felt naked and exposed without his touch to ground her.

As Oliver moved off further into the inky darkness, Felicity stood at a loss. It was far easier to get back into the Glades than it had been to leave earlier, but, then again, that shouldn't have been too surprising. After all, hell always beckoned but rarely said goodbye. Now that she was at the foundry, however, Felicity didn't know what to do or where to go. She knew that she wanted to be there, because it represented everything in her life that remained untouched by Tommy.

While he had hated Oliver for the changes being The Hood had helped to bring about, Tommy didn't rape her because she was good with a computer or because, in her spare time, she helped his vigilante of an ex-best friend. It was everything else outside of Verdant's basement that had been tarnished: her home and Queen Consolidated, her favorite restaurants and the little boutiques she frequented. Because Tommy Merlyn had only existed in that outside world; despite his bitterness... or maybe his bitterness was a consequence, he had never factored into what she, Oliver, and Digg did together. So, they were safe. The foundry was safe. But it had also been rocked by The Undertaking, by the changes The Undertaking and wrought in them, and she didn't know how to react to and adapt to those changes... or even, it seemed, how to move.

For several minutes, she just... remained there, a statue where Oliver had left her. Eventually, she heard his steps coming towards her once more, and, with them, he brought a source of light. Somewhere in the shelves of supplies she had never paid much attention to because, if it didn't require power and couldn't be used to hack, then she had no interest in it, Oliver had managed to find a battery powered lantern.

It was strange, watching him move carefully, sluggishly through the destruction that was now the basement as he made his way towards her – not because she wasn't used to watching Oliver but because the weak light made him seem vulnerable. In that moment, he wasn't The Hood or even Oliver Queen; he was just a man who was as confused, and angry, and hurt as she was. And, if it were even more possible, this realization made him just that much more beautiful to Felicity. It wasn't until he came to a stop directly in front of her – close enough to touch yet they both refrained – that she returned to her previous observation.

Oliver was hurt.

Oliver was hurt. And in pain. And it wasn't just emotional or mental like her own injuries... at least those of which she could focus on; he was physically suffering, and it had taken her hours to notice. She had been so wrapped up in her own problems that she had ignored all the signs: the stiff way he held himself, the unusual paleness of his skin, the fact that he was favoring his left side. Felicity wanted to rant and rave, she wanted to cry that she had been too selfish to see what was right in front of her. She was the one person who was _always _supposed to see the truth when it came to Oliver, but, in her desperation to have him near, her awareness of the man who had been taking such care of her had been pushed far, far away. Giving into the self-indulgence of her scattered emotions wouldn't help Oliver, though.

"What happened?"

As she waited for him to answer, Felicity painstakingly ran her eyes over the man before her. He was dressed casually – a simple pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, clothes that anyone would wear on a chilly spring night but ones that, on Oliver, felt like a deliberate attempt to keep her from seeing where he was injured. That skin still exposed – his face, his neck, his hands told her nothing.

When he remained silent, she lifted her gaze to meet his again, finding genuine confusion. He had no idea what she was asking him. The thought should have been reassuring, because, with any other person, it would mean that the pain wasn't that intense, that the injury wasn't that serious, but Oliver Queen was the master at ignoring and even forgetting his own discomfort, his own mortality. "You're hurt," Felicity clarified.

She expected him to pull away, to deny it, to brush her off; in the same breath, she didn't know what to expect, so when he said, "I don't want to scare you," she was caught off guard.

"It's that... it's that bad," Felicity choked out. She felt her eyes widen in sympathetic fright and as a way of stymieing her tears.

"No," Oliver was quick to assure her. Then his face screwed up with honest contemplation, and he added, "well, maybe. I don't know. I really can't... feel it."

"Because it's numb?"

"Because everything else hurts too much."

Her lashes fluttered shut, and Felicity inhaled sharply. She knew exactly what he meant by _everything else_. With eyes still closed, she promised, "you won't scare me, Oliver; you couldn't."

"I'd, uh... I'd have to take my shirt off... to show you."

With new knowledge of where to look for his injury, she gaze snapped open. But, before she could run her seeking orbs across his chest and down his abdomen, Felicity noticed the discomfort seizing Oliver's face. He was blushing. Of all the ways she had wanted to make Oliver Queen blush, of all the times she had imagined doing just that, never had Felicity believed it'd be because Oliver feared seeing his torso naked would make her uncomfortable. Would scare her. But, then again, Felicity had never thought she'd be raped either.

Instead of reiterating her previous pledge, Felicity offered, "I'll go get the first aid kit, while you... get undressed."

Wordlessly, she took the lantern from him and laboriously made her way towards the small bathroom. She would have left the light with Oliver and just used her cell phone, but Starling City's cell towers were down just like The Glades had fallen that night. With no reception, her battery had long since been drained, her cell phone dead and lost somewhere along the rubble of the basement. At any other point in Felicity's life, being without her phone would have made her panic, but, now...? Now, the further separation from the rest of the world, from the world outside of the foundry and the family she had made there, was a relief.

By the time she made it back to Oliver, Felicity found that, not only had he taken off his shirt, but he had also removed the blood soaked gauze which had been discreetly hidden beneath the fabric, leaving his wound raw and bare. It was enraged and enflamed, and she nearly stumbled when she saw it. Mere inches above his heart, it made Felicity nauseous to think of how close she had come that night to losing him. For good.

The lantern fell from her right hand, falling loudly upon the concrete floor, leaving them in shadow. Of its own volition, that same hand lifted to settle delicately against Oliver's chest – her palm against his steadily beating heart, her fingers cradling his wound. "I'm so sorry." Her voice was strangled in anguish.

"I... did what I had to do. If I hadn't... well, Malcolm would have killed me. Instead, I killed him."

Three sentences; a lifetime of burden.

The wound had been self-inflicted. In an effort to stop the Dark Archer, Malcolm, and The Undertaking, Oliver had not only risked his own life but had nearly taken it.

"That's not why I'm sorry. I mean," Felicity corrected herself. "I'm always sorry when you're hurt, especially because you never seem to think that your own pain matters." Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she continued, "but I was apologizing because... because I didn't notice. You were hurt, and you needed my help, and I was just... too wrapped up in my own issues to notice, too selfish..."

"Hey," Oliver interrupted her. With furrowed brow, he said, "that's the second time tonight that you've referred to yourself as selfish, Felicity."

"Well, if the panda flats fit..."

"Don't." The simple yet heartfelt directive made any argument Felicity was going to offer die upon her bruised and battered lips. "You, Felicity Smoak, are the least selfish person I know."

Through the dried, caked blood and that which still trickled out of the wound, she gently brushed her fingers against his tender flesh, needing the feel of his warm skin beneath her hand as reassurance. His words made her throat feel thick with unreleased emotion. After several quiet moment, Felicity said, "I really need to take care of you now, okay?"

Oliver just bent down, lifted up the lantern, and placed it on the stairs beside them – a silent vow of permission for her to tend to his wound.

Felicity worked quickly and efficiently. She cleaned off the blood, cleaned out the wound, and then applied clean bandages. He flinched slightly from the stinging burn of the peroxide but never complained. The wound would need to be stitched together but later – later when they had better light and a more sterile environment. Discreetly looking up, Felicity found Oliver clenching his jaw, his gaze trained unblinkingly upon the top of her head. When she was finished, she lingered, smoothing down the gauze and tape repeatedly as if, in doing so, she could convince Oliver to further delay the inevitable.

But then he spoke. With a resigned, tired sigh, Oliver stated, "I should take you home. It's... well, it's early actually, and..."

"I'm not staying there."

Her interjection brought his gaze intently back to hers. "What? Why...?" Shifting his questioning quickly, Oliver instead asked, "where are you staying then, Felicity?"

"At a hotel."

Before he could protest, before he could offer her the use of the mansion, or say that he would stay with her, or even just to demand that she let him pay for her room, a third voice joined them. "A hotel. I can't believe I didn't think of that." Felicity had no idea what Digg meant by his self-chastising comment, but, before she could ask, he told her, "don't forget the exit wound. I imagine it's even worse. Always is."

Felicity did nothing more than spare Diggle a glance before slipping around to stand behind Oliver. Her friend certainly looked worse for the wear – sore but still standing and proud of the fact. A wave of shame crashed over Felicity. For hours, she had been worried about herself, and then Oliver, but never once had she questioned how Digg was, how he had fared in their fight against Malcolm. While he always seemed like the invincible big brother, Felicity knew her inattention was at least due in part to the distraction of the fallout from Tommy's actions against her.

"Thea's fine. She's with Roy. But there's no way the two of you can go back to the mansion – not with the press camped out there and practically every person in this city gunning for your backs. I was thinking she could stay with Roy, and you could hunker down here or even stay at my place for a few days, but a hotel is a much better idea," John stated unequivocally. "I can keep you both in the same place, we'll have more control over security, and we can use your money to buy us some anonymity – use fake names and move around every few days to keep the hounds at bay. At least until the media frenzy over The Undertaking and your mother's role in it dies down... or until some other billionaire tries to level the city, shy of skipping town, a hotel is our safest bet."

"Felicity will be staying with us," Oliver added to the plan.

She could feel Digg's searching, probing gaze on her as she continued to studiously ignore him and work on Oliver's exit wound. "I think that's a good idea," Diggle agreed. "I'll book you a suite."

Felicity never said a word.

…

Roughly, Oliver scrubbed his hands over his face.

He sighed.

He allowed his eyes to fall shut but then immediately opened them. There was too much too do, too much to plan, too much he couldn't see, taunting him from his own mind's eye.

Had he ever really known Tommy Merlyn?

If someone would have asked him that question 48 hours earlier, the answer would have unequivocally been yes. Absolutely, 100% yes. But now...?

Now, Oliver wandered if he had just seen what he had wanted to see during all those years he and Tommy were friends. Or maybe he had just ignored those things that didn't jive with the man he had built his best friend up into.

Before the island, Oliver had shied away from heavy emotions. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't just shy away from them; he ran, screaming and hiding in the opposite direction, whenever anything ever got too real. That's why he asked Sara to go with him on the Queen's Gambit, why the idea of moving in with Laurel had propelled him to cheat on her – not just with the random girls he usually chose for such destructive affairs but with her own sister. Commitment required emotional honesty, and, even as ignorant as he had been all those yeas before, Oliver had been aware of the fact that truth did not play a role in any aspect of his life. Well, besides his relationship with his little sister...

Even with Tommy, they kept things simple... and debauched. It was much easier to get drunk together than it was to have a real conversation. Challenging each other to see who could sleep with more women in a single week was better for avoidance of anything too personal than actually confronting Tommy's pain over losing his mother and his lack of a relationship with his father, than for Oliver to see just how broken his own parents' marriage was. So, he gladly bought the fake smiles and forced air of lightness Tommy exuded, glossing over the flashes of jealousy, bitterness, and hurt his friend hadn't always been able to hide. And he had never questioned why Tommy was always the one to take charge of planning the latest party, the latest prank, the latest conquest, because it was easier for Oliver to just sit back and enjoy the spoils of his friend's efforts.

Then, after he returned from his five hellish years on the island, he had been so focused on getting back those people he had left behind that he never even thought that maybe, just as with him, those years had changed those he loved, too. Laurel was supposed to be in love with him – always in love with him, Thea was supposed to worship him, and Tommy was supposed to always be there for a laugh and a lark but never anything deeper. While he was a completely different person, he had depended upon those closest to him to see him as he once was, so he never allowed himself to see them as anything different. So, with Tommy, it wasn't his lack of interest which prompted him to ignore the signs of his former friend spiraling out of control but an inability – an outright refusal – to acknowledge those signs.

And, for that, Felicity paid the price.

Oliver knew Felicity well enough to know that she wouldn't hold him responsible, that she didn't hold him responsible. Her ability to feel comforted by and safe in his presence spoke volumes. He also knew that, logically, no one could be blamed for Tommy's actions but Tommy, but logic wasn't the easiest thing to access when he had to watch someone close to him suffering. Felicity put on a brave face, and, frankly, he was astonished by just how together she was managing to hold herself, but that couldn't make up for the fact that she downright refused to go back to her own home, that she was constantly surveying her surroundings when she wasn't with him in the safety of Verdant's basement, that she moved haltingly, disjointedly – like a fawn taking its first steps, afraid that she could stumble and shatter at any moment.

Perhaps what bothered him the most, ate at him the most, was the fact that she had been hurt, but it wasn't because he was The Hood; it was because he was Oliver Queen.

When Oliver had brought Felicity into his world as the vigilante, he had promised both himself and John that he'd be able to keep her safe, that they would be able to keep her safe. And they had. From bomb collars, to angry mobsters, to a city that literally crumbled around her ears, there had been tense situations, but he had always managed to get her out and away relatively unscathed. But as his friend – as _Oliver Queen's_ friend...? The first person who truly realized the important place she held in his life used that connection against her in the most despicable, cruel way.

If he honestly believed that pushing her away at that point would keep her safe, Oliver would do just that. But he didn't. Maybe he couldn't actually have a healthy, functioning relationship, but that didn't negate the fact that Oliver understood women. He understood Felicity. And pushing her away now would only confirm the worst doubts and opinions Felicity believed about herself. Plus, there was a part of Oliver that just... couldn't let her go. He needed to be the one who took care of her, who helped her heal. It was the only way that he'd be able to, not forget, but forgive what had been done to her. To forgive himself.

A knock at the door had him sitting up straight, coming to attention. While Felicity was off in one of the suite's bedrooms (hopefully asleep after they had gone to pick up her things from and then check out of her hotel room), Digg had agreed to get Thea and bring her back, no doubt kicking and screaming, with him to where they were now staying. Sending the man who his sister believed to be no more than his driver would certainly arouse Thea's seemingly always suspicious nature, but the media wasn't looking for John Diggle; they were looking for him, for the next in line to the tarnished Queen throne, so Diggle would be able to slip into the manor much easier than Oliver himself would be able to. Plus, Felicity did not need to be alone. Oliver didn't want her to be alone. And John didn't know what had happened to her.

With one last, tired sigh, Oliver stood from the couch and crossed the room. He was already talking as he twisted the handle, opening the door. "The first thing we're going to have to do is get more keys... You're not Digg."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Diggle. Your driver. The man whose name this hotel suite has been rented under? Fraternizing with the help now, Queen?"

He was too exhausted and too on edge to play their little game. Usually, they'd banter back and forth, Oliver's shots much softer than the man's standing across from him. But that's because Quentin Lance had a reason to be hard on Oliver. Two, in fact. But it annoyed Oliver that the cop had managed to track him down so quickly, that, in light of everything that had happened to the Glades, he was pursuing his vendetta rather than working to help the people he had, as a police officer, sworn to serve and protect. So, instead of an easy smile, instead of a flippant remark, and instead of inviting Lance in like he hadn't a care in the world, Oliver used his body to block the other man from stepping foot into the room.

"You need to leave. I have nothing to say about my mother's..."

"I'm not here about your serial killer of a mom, kid; I'm here about Miss Smoak."

"Felicity," Oliver questioned ineptly, caught off guard. He immediately schooled his features to once more resemble the belligerent playboy Lance expected, that he was trying to project. It was too late, though, because Lance recognized his mistake. Both of them – the emotion and the familiarity.

"How such a sweet kid ended up in your hotel suite... or, excuse me, your driver's hotel suite, I'll never know. But, then again, I'll never understand how you managed to fool not one but both of my very smart daughters."

Stonily, Oliver replied, "Felicity's not here."

"Well, we both know it wasn't because you're a good liar," Lance quipped. "Look, I know she's here."

Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, well, I think it's also been established that your instincts, especially concerning me, aren't always accurate, Detective."

"She's not at her apartment."

"Did you go inside?"

"No," Lance denied. Before he could say more, though, Oliver was already talking.

"Well, then, maybe she just didn't want to talk to you. I could sympathize."

"Is that why you took her to the hospital last night – because you were sympathetic?" Oliver didn't respond. "That information wasn't in the official report, but I had more than one hospital employee pull me aside when I went to pick up the evidence this morning to tell me that you barely left Miss Smoak's side. I went to her apartment on the off chance that she'd be there, but I knew she wouldn't be. I tried the mansion, but your sister said that she hadn't seen you in days – an interesting little nugget but not helpful in tracking down the victim I was looking for. As I was..."

"Felicity is _not _just some... not a victim," Oliver interrupted.

But Lance just ignored him. " ... making my way back into the city your family helped level a portion of last night, I remembered that you're very rarely seen without a shadow – a special forces trained shadow named John Diggle. So, I swung by his place, but it was empty, too. Your club... not that you could call it that anymore... yielded the same results. After a few calls and a few more searches, Mr. Diggle's credit card showed activity here. Now, I asked myself, why would a mere driver have need for a suite in one of Starling City's fancier hotels, especially when he had a perfectly good home to return to? It isn't a mansion, of course, but it also isn't swarming in reporters and a mecca for an angry mob, so I'd say it's better than your own options right about now... which led me to realize that Mr. Diggle wasn't renting this suite for himself; he was renting it for you. And your sister. And Miss Smoak."

"Like I said," Oliver emphasized through gritted teeth. "Felicity is not here."

Before he could push the door closed, though, another door opened behind him. His eyes fell temporarily shut in disappointment. "Oliver, I... oh."

Lifting his gaze, he unflinchingly met the smirk of the man across from him. "You were saying, Queen?"

But then they both turned to face Felicity.

Lance swore under his breath, and Oliver was across the room and by her side before he could even register what the detective had said. Her hair was wet, her face scrubbed clean of the makeup she had been wearing to hide her bruises, and she looked... more than fragile; she looked splintered – bruised, swollen, and pale. Even fully dressed – pajama pants and a long sleeved shirt underneath a big, fluffy hotel robe with socks and slippers upon her feet, she looked tiny and cold, and there were way too many injuries – tiny and dauntingly not small both – for Oliver to see. He found his gaze zeroing in on her wrists, the sleeves of her shirt and robe not as long as the sweater she had been wearing and unable to hide the ring of black and blue blemishes and abrasions.

He knew those kinds of marks...

His eyes flashed up to meet hers, and Felicity sucked in a biting breath, her hands automatically reaching to pull her sleeves into the palms of her hands. But it was too late. It was only Lance's voice which prevented Oliver from saying something, from going somewhere he wasn't sure either of them were ready to go.

"Oh man, so it's true then."

He whirled around to face the other man, a glare already hardening his features. "Felicity doesn't lie and especially not about something like... this."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I just..." Lance exhaled heavily. "I guess a part of me was hoping so much that it wasn't true that a lie would have preferable to... well, to the truth."

He could understand that; hell, wasn't that partly why they were all standing there in the first place?

"You should just... go, Detective Lance." Felicity's voice was rough from emotion, from disuse; from too much use. "I... I have nothing to say to you."

"Yeah, well, I think that report I just read said it all." When she flinched as if physically hit with his sarcastic words, Lance leveled his tone. "For now, I just need a name, so I can go... or stay... and arrest the bastard that did this to you."

Felicity was across the room and defending him before Oliver could even grasp the fact that his ex-girlfriend's father had just accused him of rape.

"Don't," Felicity bit out, that one, clipped word battering throughout the room and pushing down the rising bitterness and bile in Oliver's throat.

Lance lowered his voice. It became soft and soothing... or what Oliver guessed was supposed to be soft and soothing but, to his ears, it just sounded patronizing. "I won't let him hurt you again, Miss Smoak."

"Sometimes I feel like he's the only one who hasn't hurt me," she confessed, and her words further cemented Oliver's decision to not push her away.

"Look," Lance started, laying out his case like he was presenting it to the DA and asking for an arrest warrant. "I already know that he hasn't been home in days, that he took you to the hospital, and that more than one staff member there found your interactions to be... intense. Dependent. His, territorial."

"Since when is it a crime for a friend to care for and take care of a friend?"

"Since when is Oliver Queen friends with the likes of you," Lance shot back.

It was in that moment that Oliver realized the disservice he had been showing to Felicity. While he knew that she didn't doubt his friendship, everyone else would and, apparently, did. In an effort to give her plausible deniability and to protect his secret, he had left her and their relationship open to just such of an attack that Lance was using against her. But his regret was tempered by the way that Felicity's chin – her bruised and battered chin – notched up in defiance.

"Since when do you think you know either of us well enough to question who we're friends with? And, to answer your question, Oliver and I have been friends practically since he came back to town."

"Oh, so then he knows about your little partnership with The Hood? Or... maybe that's why this happened. He was jealous of your _other _friend, and things got a little... heated."

It was demeaning, and it was rude, and Oliver knew that Quentin Lance was a better cop, a better man, than he was showing Felicity in that moment, and he hated that it was Lance's own animosity towards him that was making an already painful situation just that much more agonizing for Felicity. She wasn't backing down, though. She wasn't even shying away, and Oliver wondered if it was easier for Felicity to confront the truth of what happened with Tommy by channeling her no-doubt turbulent emotions into anger directed towards the detective she was going toe-to-toe with. If nothing else, he recognized the ribbon of strength and fire currently lifting her posture and driving her forward. It was the same determination she had shown the night before while they were battling Malcolm Merlyn, and he wouldn't take that battle away from her, no matter how much he wanted to fight for her.

"He does." When Lance raised a doubtful, mocking brow, Felicity continued, "he knows. He doesn't like it, because The Hood once went after him and he thinks he's too dangerous for me to help, but he knows, and he respects me enough to allow me to make my own decisions."

"Was he respecting you when he did... this," Lance waved a hand up and down Felicity's obviously abused body.

With hands fisted at her side and through gritted teeth, she said, "for the last time, Detective, Oliver didn't hurt me."

"Well, excuse me for doubting your judgement right now, Miss Smoak, but you and I both know that your taste in men is a little questionable – first a vigilante and now some billionaire brat of a playboy who goes through women like..."

"My judgement," she scoffed, and Oliver could tell by the sound of her voice that Felicity was well past the point of maintaining a handle on her emotions. She was entirely raw and open in that moment. "At least I never raised a daughter who fell in love with and dated a rapist."

The words didn't necessarily clear him, because he, too, at one point, had dated Laurel, but the implications of Felicity's accusation were clear for everyone to see – including Lance.

"Oh my god," the cop blanched, taking several unsteady steps back until he was leaning against the door he had entered mere minutes before.

Oliver switched his gaze to Felicity and noticed that the fight, just as quickly as it had entered her, had drained away. She was weaving on her feet, so he went to stand next to her. He didn't touch her, but he was a silent pillar of strength beside her. Or maybe she was the strong one, and he moved so that he could be closer to her unwavering loyalty and faith.

In an otherwise quiet room, Lance tentatively concluded, "Tommy Merlyn raped you."

Felicity looked away, bit her bottom lip and winced at the contact, but never denied the truth.

"Even if I said I believed you – and I'm not sure that I do," Lance challenged. Oliver's eyes zeroed in on the detective. He immediately knew what the cop was up to. While his words said one thing, his body language said another. Quentin believed Felicity, but he was baiting her for more information. " … there's no proof, and the circumstantial evidence just keeps piling up there against your playboy BFF. You showered, you didn't turn your clothes in for examination and testing, you wouldn't talk to your doctor, and I know better than to think that you're going to actually tell me what happened."

There were shades of blame peppering Lance's words, and the only reason Oliver allowed them was because he knew the other man didn't mean them. Man and cop aside, he was a good enough dad to never accuse any other father's daughter of being responsible for her own rape, for being the reason her rapist wasn't brought to justice. But he needed more than a name to work with, and maybe Felicity needed to admit more than just a name in order to start dealing with what had happened to her.

"It... my apartment," she haltingly said. At first, the memories her words conjured choked her, but then there were so many words that, if she didn't expel them, the words themselves would have suffocated her. "It was there... he, just showed up, and I tried to get him to leave. I tried to not let him in, and then I tried to get away, and then I tried to just... stop him. But I couldn't, and he was _there_. In my home. And he hurt me. He hurt me more than I thought anybody ever could. And he's _still there_. I couldn't... stay. I had to leave. I had to get away from him. All I could feel was the metal of my bed's rails where he had tied me up, cutting into my palms as I tried to break free. I tried so hard. And all I could taste was blood. All I could smell was blood. All I could hear were my own screams... and then the silence after my voice became too hoarse to scream any more. And all I could see was... darkness, my face held down against the wood floor." She gave a little shake of her head to dispel whatever horrors were replaying through her mind. Lance gagged against her words; Oliver... couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't react, because, if he did... "So, I changed, and I showered, and I packed a bag, and I haven't been back since, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to go..."

Lance mercifully interrupted her. "You're saying everything's still there – your clothes, the..." His glance slid to her wrists.

"The lamp cord," Felicity supplied.

_Fuck_.

He clenched his eyes shut, he ground his jaw until the point of pain, he dug his short-cropped nails into the flesh of his palms until beads of blood formed – anything to keep the darkness from taking over. Because he couldn't sink into the oblivion of his fury that beckoned. Rage would only scare Felicity further. She needed him there beside her, not lost to the misery her words stirred. The worst part was that Oliver knew what she was confessing was only the simplest of recollections, a ghost of the demons she struggled with, but it was already enough to bring him to his knees.

Thankfully, Quentin didn't ask for more details. "Nothing's been disturbed?"

"I, uh, broke some more things... afterwards, but no."

At that, Oliver's eyes ricocheted towards the woman standing next to him. When she should have cried, when she should have asked for help, Felicity had, instead, sought further destruction and buried... everything. She raged, and then she ran. And they were far more alike than he had ever realized. The moment of clarity temporarily distracted Oliver, and he found himself wondering what had happened in Felicity's life to have shaped such a reaction. He was suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that, despite how close they were – how much time they spent together, how much they meant to one another, and how well they knew each other, he knew nothing of her past, of her family. Oh, there had been background checks – run by both of them, he had no doubt, but Oliver wasn't talking about facts; he was talking about feelings and the events that and people in Felicity's life who had caused them to be felt.

The clicking of a door opening brought Oliver back to the moment at hand. Lance was preparing to leave but was paused hesitantly... almost like he didn't know what to do next... in the doorway. "I'm, uh, sorry, so sorry – that this happened to you, Miss Smoak, for the things I said... about the both of you."

Oliver nodded his acceptance of the apology; Felicity remained stoic and unmoved.

"By the way, you didn't mention this to your friend, did you – The Hood?"

"No, why?"

Lance took in her answer and then shrugged. "Merlyn was found dead last night – pierced through the heart."

"Malcolm – The Dark Archer's – dead, I know," Felicity confirmed.

"Not Malcolm," the detective refuted. And that's exactly what he was in that moment: a detective. "His body was never recovered. I was talking about Tommy Merlyn. We found him at CNRI, a puncture would to the abdomen and a rebar through the chest."

"Wasn't that building heavily damaged by the quake," Oliver spoke up for the first time since he had defended Felicity's honor.

"It was," Lance confirmed. "But rebars don't jump from body part to body part."

"And neither do gun shots, yet the government still says that Lee Harvey Oswaldkilled Kennedy," Felicity argued. "Looks like you just got your very own rubber-bullet case, Detective."

"Right," was all Lance said. And then he was gone.

For several minutes, neither he nor Felicity moved or said a word. Frankly, Oliver didn't know what to say or what to do; he didn't know what he wanted to say or what he wanted to do; he didn't know what Felicity needed him to say or what she needed him to do. As for Felicity... Well, he had a feeling she was just trying to wrap her mind around everything that had been revealed... and hadn't... during Quentin Lance's visit. Finally, he watched as she physically just pushed everything away, her body shuddering in the effort to do so.

"I was... I came out here, because I can't sleep. But I need to. I'm... I'm so tired, Oliver."

"I'm tired, too," he admitted.

She wanted him to stay with her, to lay down beside her, and he wanted that, too, because it was the only way he'd be able to believe she was safe. That he was keeping her safe. But Oliver also knew that she'd never ask, and he'd never actually offer... at least, not in that way.

"Come on," he nodded over his shoulder back towards the room she had claimed as her own. "Thea will be here soon, and she'll take the other room, and, while I love my sister, I'm not sharing a room with her."

"And you're too big for the couch... or, I mean the couch is too small for you," Felicity offered, helping him spin the excuse they both needed.

The suite contained California king sized beds, Oliver noticed as he slipped into the bedroom behind Felicity, silently closing the door behind them. Without prompting – as if just by knowing he was there with her, she was ready to go to sleep, Felicity snuggled into the far side of the bed, burrowing down beneath the covers. After a moment of indecision, he slipped in beside her, simply staying in his clothes. Digg was picking up a few things for him from the house, but he didn't want to wait, and there was no way he'd strip down to just his underwear – or less – like he usually slept. It only took minutes for his eyes to droop shut. The last thing Oliver saw was Felicity's arm reaching across the wide, empty expanse of the bed for him... and his hand curling around hers.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Tommy Merlyn had been buried that morning.

Oliver didn't know how he felt about that fact as he stood before the man's unmarked grave.

Facts helped him focus, though.

Fact number one: the service had been rushed and private. No notice of Tommy's death had run in the papers. As far as the rest of Starling City was concerned, he was just another anonymous death caused by the town's two most powerful and wealthy families: Oliver's own family and Tommy's. From what he had gathered from the awkward phone conversation he had been surprised by that morning from Lance, Laurel had pushed for Tommy to be buried as soon as possible, not wanting the vultures to circle and ruin the ceremony that was supposed to honor Tommy's short life.

Fact number two: Tommy's funeral had taken place less than three days after his death.

Fact number three: the only reason that Oliver was standing before the mound of dirt that now housed his best friend was the remarkable woman standing beside him.

Without looking in Felicity's direction, Oliver squeezed her hand that was held in his own. Since the moment he fell asleep with their fingers twined together, Oliver had rarely been without Felicity's touch and vice versa. They... grounded each other. Centered each other. Were each other's calm in the middle of a storm.

And a storm it most certainly was.

Thea was furious with him. She didn't understand... anything about him. Or so she said. She wanted to know how he could just disappear after their mother's press conference, how he could not once try to check in with her to make sure that she was alright, how he could send his driver to pick her up when he seemingly couldn't be bothered. She was pissed about having to leave the only home she had ever known, and she was angry that he seemed to know more about their mother's actions than she did. Most of all, she was hurt by the fact that he had refused to attend Tommy's private funeral with her. She had wanted his support, and she had wanted to support him in what she assumed was his time of mourning. Because that's what people did when they lost someone they loved, Thea had told him; they mourn.

While he felt many things, standing there before Tommy Merlyn's final resting place, one of them was not sadness or loss. He was angry – blinding, stumbling, dig up his body and drive a rebar through his heart once again angry. Oliver couldn't get Felicity's words from the morning before out of his mind, he couldn't stop seeing the proof of where Tommy had bound her wrists to her bed as he raped her. And he wasn't just mad at Tommy; it felt like he was mad at the world.

He was mad at his mother for her role in The Undertaking. He was mad at Malcolm Merlyn for his inability to grieve the loss of his wife without turning into a murdering sociopath. He was mad at his father for ever telling him about the Queen family wrongs that needed to be righted. He was mad at Thea for not sharing the burden with him, he was mad at Laurel for missing a man who didn't deserve the sweat off the laborers' backs who had dug his grave, he was mad at Lance because surely he should have seen what Tommy was capable of before he hurt Felicity and done something to stop him, and, more than anyone else, Oliver was mad at himself because Tommy's actions had blindsided him, had ruined a lifetime of friendship and tarnished so many happy memories.

He was also bitter and scared, because now what? Despite everything they had done, everything he, Felicity, and Diggle had sacrificed, The Undertaking had still happened. Sure, they had stopped half the Glades from being leveled, but the other half was dust beneath a man-made, a Queen-made machine. Starling City didn't need a vigilante now; it needed charity, and goodwill, and hope, and Oliver was the last person who could give anybody, let alone thousands of people, those things. But who was he without The Hood? What purpose did he have in life if he wasn't using his bow and arrow to hunt down the bad guy, the oppressor? And, perhaps most importantly, what would happen to his relationships with Felicity and Digg if they weren't a team any longer, if he lost his partners because their crusade had been blown to smithereens?

A puzzled sigh at his side drew Oliver away from his haunted thoughts. "Well, this isn't at all what I expected. It's rather anticlimactic, isn't it?"

He had never thought of it that way before, but Felicity did have a point. "Funerals always are."

"Not that we actually went to his funeral, because that would have been... awkward, but there's dirt – a lot of dirt, and we're in a graveyard, and there's a dead body buried right in front of us. If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, then that's really one very confused man."

Her statement was so incongruous with their present setting and situation that Oliver couldn't help the bark of laughter that left his mouth. "Felicity, what are you talking about?"

"I really have no idea, but the quiet is kind of creeping me out. So... yeah." He was still chuckling when it was her turn to squeeze his hand as she asked, "what did you think coming here would feel like?"

He paused to consider, because he wanted to make sure that his answer made sense... to the both of them. After he had hung up from his call with Lance that morning, Felicity had sensed that something was wrong. While she didn't press him to talk to her, Oliver found himself confiding in her anyway. He told her that Tommy was being buried that morning; that Laurel had made all the preparations with her father's help; that Lance wasn't sure whether or not Oliver would want to be there, but he did think that Oliver deserved the chance to make that decision for himself. Plus, Laurel had asked Lance to call some people for her, and he hadn't been able to tell his daughter what Tommy had done in some of the last hours of his life. And Oliver had told Felicity that, while he wouldn't go to the funeral, he needed to see Tommy's grave. She had nodded her head once and gone to take a shower. A half an hour later, Felicity had emerged plainly and blandly dressed – all muted, dark colors and rounded lines – yet obviously ready to leave the suite for the first time since they had walked through the hotel room's doors the morning before.

"I thought... it'd feel like closure – that it would, once and for all, convince me that Tommy really is dead and that he can't..."

" … hurt me anymore," Felicity finished for him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw her tilt her head in contemplation. "I honestly thought I'd want to spit on his grave when you weren't looking."

Once more, Oliver found himself amused by the woman standing beside him. "Why only when I wasn't looking?"

"Well, spitting isn't very ladylike, Oliver."

_Only Felicity Smoak..._

Pivoting ninety degrees, Oliver turned to face her. "So, if you don't feel like launching a loogie..."

"Ew, gross, Oliver," she interrupted him, wrinkling up her nose. It was the closest thing to lightness that he had seen from her since... before. Perhaps it was odd that it was happening in front of her rapist's gravesite, but the mound of dirt before them didn't feel like it held any power over them; it was just... dirt. And around them? The grass was green, birds were singing, the sun was shining, and it was a beautiful, late spring day.

"Hey, it was your plan, not mine."

"It wasn't a plan; it was... just a thought."

She blushed. He smiled. And then hell came raining down upon them in the form of one livid Laurel Lance.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?!"

The ugly words had Oliver reacting instinctively. While he kept his body in front of Felicity's, he turned his head to face the danger from behind him. His head was no sooner turned, though, when it was careening back again, the smack of Laurel's hand against his skin reverberating through the air. "Goddamn you, Ollie. How could you bring _her_ here?"

"Laurel?"

"You're supposed to be his best friend, and, after you can't even bother to show up for his funeral – _his funeral_, Ollie, you bring the woman accusing him of rape to his grave? What's wrong with you?" Every word was louder, more on edge, shriller than the last. "No, don't answer that. Because I already know. You walk around this town, pretending to be so much better than the Oliver who cheated on me with my own sister, whose fear of commitment cost my sister her life, but you're just as selfish as you always were. And to think that I... that I chose you over Tommy? It makes me _sick_." The sobs wracking her petite body nearly shook it with grief. Or perhaps it was denial. Either way, Oliver just stood there as Laurel fell apart... and as she tore him apart along with her. "_You _make me sick."

"I understand that you're hurting right now, and that's to be expected, but Oliver doesn't deserve this." Felicity's soft as steel conviction surrounded him, drew his attention away from Laurel long enough for the other woman to launch herself in Felicity's direction.

"Don't speak to me," Laurel shrieked. Oliver was just able to get his hands on her shoulders to hold her away. "Don't look at me; don't look at him!" His ex-girlfriend wasn't talking about Oliver; she was talking about Tommy... or, more accurately, Tommy's grave. As she wrenched herself out of Oliver's grasp, she ranted, "do you even know why Tommy's dead? Because he saved me. He _saved _me even though I broke his heart. I took everything he felt for me and tossed it aside for... what? A one night stand with a guy who never treated me even half as good as Tommy did despite the fact that we dated off and on for _years_? Tommy knew this. He knew this, and he still saved me, and here you are, mocking his sacrifice and my loss by coming to his grave after you accused him of..." Laurel tossed up her hands in a display of outright refusal. "No, I won't even say it. I won't dignify your lies and insult Tommy further by even repeating the disgusting things you're saying about him."

"Laurel, I know you don't want to accept..."

"And you," she whirled back to face him, a grimace making a gross mockery of her lovely face. "You do not want to finish that sentence, Ollie. While I'm not surprised your pathetic, needy dork of a hanger-on over there would make up such a sick story to get closer to you..."

Felicity's gasp had Laurel once more glaring at the woman beside him. "Oh, that's right. See, I remember you. The clothes are different, and you're not wearing the glasses..."

"I can't," Felicity interrupted, her voice calm, and detached, and dead. He shuddered at the emptiness he heard. It was such a contrast to Laurel's emotional meltdown, and any progress Oliver had been thinking he and Felicity had made just minutes before was forgotten. "They were broken. In the struggle. I have to wear my contacts until I can get new glasses."

"Would you just listen to yourself? Are you even capable of _not _lying? Tommy Merlyn was a _good _man. He was..."

"... a broken, and bitter, and little man who had no self-confidence and who had no purpose, no drive, no ambition – a little man who lived a little life, and, when he didn't even have that anymore, he found someone who was smaller and physically weaker than he was, and he tried to take their self-confidence, and purpose, and drive, and ambition, and life from them. But I'm not broken, despite Tommy giving it the ol' college try. Tommy Merlyn was a rapist, but I'm not a victim."

"Like I was saying," Laurel didn't even seemed fazed by Felicity's very powerful and very accurate assessment. "While I'm not surprised that someone like you would try something so desperate to get Ollie's attention, I can't believe you," and her disgust and attention switched back to shine on him, "would go along with it. But then I saw the two of you standing there together, and I realized two things. First," she nearly fired her words at him – nine millimeter caliber missiles to bounce off the heart that had, sometime since he made the mistake of sleeping with her, become bulletproof against her empty attack. "You two deserve each other. And, secondly, this is all about money."

That was the _last _thing he had expected Laurel to accuse them of. Together, he and Felicity exclaimed, "what?"

"After what your mother did, Queen Consolidated will be lucky if it survives, and it's no fun being Oliver Queen, playboy billionaire, if the zeros aren't there to back up that identity. The only company that's going to be more vulnerable than your family's will be Merlyn Global, so you and the girl so desperate for your attention that she'd agree to disrespect her own gender in order to cozy up to you concocted this sick plan to take over what should have been Tommy's legacy. Accuse a dead man of rape, and he can't go to jail, but there's always civil court, right?"

Sparing a glance at Felicity, Oliver found her agape, utterly taken aback by Laurel's twisted assertions. He, however, had plenty to say. "Laurel, I'm not a good man. I've hurt you time and time again. I've done horrible things to you. To your whole family. But the fact that you think I would lie about something like this...? Well, it just proves to me that maybe we never really knew each other. But that doesn't even matter. What does matter is that you... just stop. I won't tell you how to feel, but I am telling you to stay away from Felicity. She's done nothing wrong here. Tommy did rape her. We're not trying to steal his father's company. And I think it'd be best if you and I had nothing to do with each other moving forward."

She stared at him mutely, mutinously, and he just reached for Felicity's hand, once again lacing their fingers together. As he led her away from Laurel and out of the graveyard to where he had parked a nondescript rental car, he softly stated, "despite everything, I am sorry for your loss. Goodbye, Laurel."

It wasn't the closure he had been expecting, but it was certainly an ending.

…

_'I'll be fine.'_

_'I need this.'_

_'A little bit of normalcy for a few hours would be nice.'_

_'A distraction would be good right about now.'_

_'Please, Oliver.'_

He had insisted it was too soon – for her, for him, for them. But Felicity, before or after Tommy Merlyn's introduction into her life, had always been tenacious. And she also knew Oliver Queen. She knew what to say and how to say it in order to get him to act in a certain way, and, while she should have felt bad for using his emotions to manipulate him, she wasn't the only one in their relationship who sometimes resorted to such drastic measures. Plus, after their confrontation with Laurel, she had been desperate.

While the excuses she had given Oliver sounded well and good, they were just that: excuses – because she didn't even know what normal was now, and because nothing could distract her from what her life had recently become, but the truth hit a little too close to home for the both of them to be used in order to convince Oliver that they should stop by the office for a few hours before returning to the hotel suite.

The real reason Felicity had insisted upon going into QC was because she had allowed Laurel's words to get to her. Oh, she knew the other woman's accusations were baseless, but that didn't prevent the sting of her angry diatribe from hitting its mark. Laurel's opinion of Felicity and her perspectives into Felicity's relationship with Oliver confirmed every single one of Felicity's deepest and darkest doubts about herself. She knew that she couldn't push Oliver away – not now, perhaps not ever, but she was also aware of the fact that her feelings for him grew with every tender moment shared between them, every time he allowed himself to take care of her, and every time he welcomed her taking care of him. Running to QC, running to her computers and everything they once represented to her, had been a way for Felicity to remind herself that, eventually, life would have to return to how it once was.

She'd go back to work permanently. She'd be forced to go back to her own apartment. She would have to find a way to sleep alone in her bed once more and wake up without someone there beside her, holding her hand. Without Oliver. And, when she did return to everything that had once been familiar but that now seemed totally alien, she'd be forced to do so without anyone knowing why such a sacrifice cost her so much. They'd see the bruises and think that they were just from the earthquake. They'd see her fear and trepidation and assume that, unlike them, she wasn't strong enough to put a man-made natural disaster behind her. While she didn't want them to know the truth either, being labeled a coward – even if it was just behind her back – would hurt. It was just one more reason why she wasn't sure if she could return to how her life was _before_... or if she even wanted to.

So, she had forced her own hand. Using Oliver's guilt and need to take care of her against him, she had wielded those powers of persuasion into convincing him to take her into QC. They had parted in the parking garage, Felicity going to the IT Department, and Oliver heading somewhere else while he, no doubt, killed time while waiting for her to be ready to leave again. She hadn't been surprised by his insistence that he stay, too – using the excuse that it'd be good for company moral. The offices were practically empty, though – everyone still recuperating after the destruction of The Glades and hiding away in uncertainty as they waited to see if Queen Consolidated would even still be left standing once the dust settled. Instead, she had been comforted in knowing, even if she couldn't see him (and, really, if she wanted to see him, it would only take a few quick keystrokes to pull up just the right security camera), he was near. Six months ago – heck, six days ago, his overprotectiveness and her dependency would have irked Felicity; now, she just accepted it.

In fact, she was grateful for it, because, while she had eagerly counted down the time until it would be reasonable to leave, her thoughts had served to take her mind off... well, everything else – off the fact that her office chair no longer was comfortable, that her office itself seemed too bright and jarring, that she was now annoyed by the constant hum of the servers. Whereas they had once been a white noise she craved, now she just wanted the quiet, the stillness that only seemed to be hers when she was with Oliver. It helped her forget that, while her work at QC now held no interest for her, her fingers were practically itching to start a search on one of the criminals from Oliver's notebook, that she really wanted to hack a bank account, a federal agency – something, anything.

Two hours after arriving and having accomplished nothing productive, Felicity felt like she was about to crawl out of her own skin, and she couldn't take it any longer. She practically sighed in relief as she sent a text to Oliver, telling him that she was ready to go, and, when he was suddenly standing in front of her seconds later, she actually smiled. It was nice to know that she wasn't the only one feeling out of sorts. Side by side, they walked towards the elevator, Oliver's steps automatically shrinking to match her own.

"Are you hungry?"

She wasn't. "I could eat." But she knew that he would want her to be, and she knew that he would only allow himself to be hungry if someone else was, too.

"We sort of skipped lunch, and I know dinner's not for a few more hours, but I thought we could just... order up some room service, and..."

They boarded the elevator, Oliver reaching across the small, enclosed space and across her to request the parking garage level. "... maybe just relax this evening – watch some TV, a movie perhaps," she finished for him.

Oliver sighed in relief. "Yeah." He paused, met her gaze, and then tilted his head in thought. "I just... Everything else..." – Queen Consolidated, the Foundry, the club, his mother, what Laurel had said – "... it can wait for another day."

The soft peal of the elevator's bell made Felicity tear her eyes away from Oliver's as she watched the lift's doors open but not before she offered him a small smile of acceptance, of concurrence and an equally slight nod.

And then all hell broke loose for the second time that day.

The first thing she noticed was that she couldn't see. It took Felicity several seconds to realize that it wasn't that she had suddenly gone blind; there were just too many flashbulbs going off around her for her eyes to adjust. And then she felt Oliver's hand surround hers as he insistently tugged her off the elevator, pulling her behind him. Despite not knowing what was happening, she went willingly, trustingly. Shifting so that she was practically pressed against his back, Felicity tried to melt into Oliver's suit jacket, her hand that wasn't being held by Oliver's twisted tightly in the luxurious fabric. Despite how overwhelmed she felt, how panicked, and despite the fact that Oliver was trying his best to shield her and get her away from the bedlam as quickly as possible, the words, the taunts, the questions, the assumptions, the accusations, the ugliness eventually slipped past her confusion.

"Is it true?"

"When did it allegedly happen?"

"Whose idea was it?"

"If what you are claiming is the truth, Miss Smoak, why didn't you go to the authorities immediately following the incident?"

"Did he drug you?"

"Was he drunk?"

"Was it roofies again this time, or maybe it was something different?"

"How did you and Mr. Queen meet?"

"Was it Mr. Queen who introduced you to Tommy Merlyn?"

"Are you and Mr. Queen dating, or is this just a business relationship?"

"Do you really think that a court will give you a company the size of Merlyn Global just because you cry rape?"

"Is it true you're pregnant with Tommy Merlyn's baby?"

"The report is that the attack occurred at Verdant. Is this accurate, Miss Smoak?"

"Word is that you and Mr. Queen are currently living together?"

"Do you even know who the father is, Miss Smoak?"

"Why are you refusing to talk to the police – what, haven't you figured out all the details of your story yet?"

"Did Tommy Merlyn really rape you, or are you just the little girl who cried...?"

A car door slammed, and Felicity realized that Oliver had simply elected to shove her across the center console of the rental car before climbing behind the wheel. Moments later, they were backing up out of his parking space, tires squealing. Whether the reporters and photographers moved out of the way willingly or were moved by the car, she didn't know; she didn't care. Her breathing was erratic – fast and choppy one second, shallow and sporadic the next, her entire body trembling. She watched her fingers as they seemed to blur together from the quivering... or perhaps that was because of the tears which had gathered in her eyes, tears Felicity refused to let fall.

But then Oliver was there, taking one of her hands in his and squeezing. She lifted her gaze from their contrasting yet complimentary flesh and found his other hand clenching the steering wheel. His fingers spasmed against the supple leather, a single word escaping through a grimace. She could hear the tightness of his jaw, his teeth and joints grinding together. "_Laurel_."


	5. Chapter Four

_Hello, lovelies!_

_A few notes regarding this upcoming chapter (and the previously one)... So, first, there's no Diggle. Yet. However, we'll see him in the next chapter, and, following that, he'll be featured more prominently. Promise! Secondly, as I've mentioned in many of my responses to your comments, there's more to Laurel's behavior than what meets the eye. It's not just (insert emotion here). It's EVERYTHING combined. Plus more. And Papa Lance will provide us with the insight into this in the fifth chapter. Finally, for the first time in this story, Moira will be seen and heard from. All I'm going to say is that, with Moira, NOTHING is ever as it seems. (This is why I like(d) her so much.) There's always some deeper, inner motivation driving her; there's always something just lurking underneath the surface of everything she does, of everything she says. Remember this as you read her scene. Oh, and it's not separate from everything else; it fits in... just perhaps ambiguously at this point. But it's important, especially in the latter stages of the story._

_Anyway, so I've rambled on enough. Thanks, everyone, for your continued (and amazing) support of this story!_

~Charlynn~

**Chapter Four**

"We need to talk."

Oliver looked up from the table where he was working. Before Thea had entered the main room of the suite, the only noise filling the large space had been his shuffling of papers... of which there were many. Papers about how The Undertaking and his mother's involvement had rocked Queen Consolidated, rendering the once solid and seemingly impenetrable company into takeover fodder in a mere few days. Papers about the club, and what it would cost to rebuild it, and papers that told him nothing about whether or not he even wanted to need a cover for his nighttime activities. Papers about his mother's legal case, papers about Felicity, papers about what the town now thought about his family. Some papers were articles from all the local newspapers and online blogs, some were notes Digg gathered for him during the day when inactivity drove him to seek out something to keep his mind and hands busy, some were from his lawyers.

If Oliver was honest with himself, he didn't want to deal with any of them. Rather, he'd prefer to be anywhere else, doing anything else – on the island again, out riding his bike, watching movies with Felicity. She was asleep, though. Since the earthquake, since he had found out about... Tommy, she tended to sleep a lot. Oliver hoped it was good for her, that it helped... even if only in a small way. And, in the meantime – while she slept, he did things he didn't particularly want to do but knew needed to be done anyway. Besides, even if he wanted to run away and escape, he couldn't leave. He didn't want to leave – not her, not his sister, not again.

"And don't think this is me forgiving you for being such a jerk recently – for forcing me out of our home, for sending your driver to do your dirty work for you and then not even having the decency to tell me why, for not going to Tommy's funeral."

When Thea paused to take a breath – her angry diatribe leaving her emotions bare for him to see: eyes flashing, shoulders stiff and distant, Oliver found himself trying to explain but, as always, unable to tell her everything. "I... I went to his grave. Afterwards."

"And how exactly did you going to the cemetery by yourself help me say goodbye to someone who was like a second brother to me, Ollie?"

His next words were out before he could think them through. "I wasn't alone."

Thea gasped – like he had physically hurt her, nodded. "I see."

"Speedy..."

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head and backing up, moving several steps away from him.

Oliver accepted her censure, her warning, her command. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looked anywhere but towards his baby sister. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Who is she?"

"What?" He was genuinely confused.

"Because I know it's not Laurel." Oliver went to ask for more clarification, but Thea plowed right over him. "For a while there, I thought maybe you two were going to get back together. Or maybe you did. I don't know. But then Tommy died, and you became even more distant than before... and that's saying something. And, okay, so you weren't there for me, but you weren't there for Laurel either, and, when I said something to her about it, she got angry – not because you weren't there but because I thought you should have been."

"It's... complicated."

"Yeah, no kidding," Thea snorted derisively. "Because I've seen the news, and I know that you're not alone in your room. So, who is she?"

Before he could respond, before he could even think of how to respond, he heard a soft, hesitant voice say, "she's me," from behind him.

Oliver turned around slowly. His carefully separated worlds were colliding. It should have been terrifying, but all he felt was relief. He was stretched so thin – they all were, and, while he wasn't ready for Thea to know everything about him... and he probably never would be, he did want her to know Felicity. She should know Felicity. And he wanted Felicity to know his sister. So much had been taken from them – their wounds so different yet the same: innocence shattered, their sense of security destroyed, the beauty he oftentimes believed if only they could still see tarnished. Sometimes, he wondered if he was just being selfish by keeping them from knowing each other, afraid that, by sharing them, he'd lose them in a way.

Shaking his thoughts away, Oliver's gaze moved from Felicity – strong, stubborn, survivor Felicity standing there patient and proud as she waited for his sister's response, her bruises not hidden away yet not highlighted either in her simple jeans and t-shirt – to Thea. Oliver wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his sister so... still before. She just watched Felicity. Her observation wasn't searching, or suspicious, or intimidating, or even questioning. Instead, Thea was simply _seeing _Felicity, seeing all the things that Oliver saw and, he had no doubt, seeing things he wasn't capable of. Yet.

"Oh god, it's true." Oliver felt his eyes fall shut at the gutted sound of his sister's voice. Despite the fact that her realization had obviously nearly destroyed her, she pressed forward, a spark of strength not even Thea realized she possessed allowing her to remain standing, helping her to hold her tears at bay. "Tommy... he hurt you. He _raped _you. And I loved him."

It was Thea's last words that had Oliver looking up and moving forward, but, before he could reach his sister, Felicity was already there. Felicity said nothing. She didn't absolve Thea's guilt – as unjustified as it might have been. She didn't reassure her, she didn't tell her that everything was going to be alright, and she didn't apologize. Instead, she simply, tentatively hugged Thea. It was an awkward gesture but sincere nevertheless. When they pulled away from each other, Oliver hung in the background, content to remain on the fringes. If they needed him, he was there, but he had a feeling they wouldn't.

Thea was the first to speak again. Narrowing her gaze and tilting her head to the side, she stated, "I know you. I don't know how I know you, but I do."

"We've met before," Felicity confirmed. "It was really brief, and totally awkward, but, after Walter was found, I..."

"'This is Felicity. She's my friend,'" his sister recalled. The fact that she remembered exactly what he had said told Oliver that the seemingly insignificant moment had made an impression upon Thea. He should have known that it would. His sister was too damn perceptive for _his _own good. When Thea snorted, his suspicions were confirmed. "My brother has _never _been friends with a girl before."

Felicity took a step back, avoided Thea's piercing gaze. "Yeah, well... there's a first time, first person, for everything. Someone was bound to pop that... oh my god."

Thea giggled. Oliver relaxed. He never thought he'd appreciate hearing Felicity accidentally say inappropriately sexual things about him to his little sister, but it reassured him that, eventually, she'd be _his _Felicity once again. Felicity blushed scarlet, and he actually smiled. That was good to see, too. She'd probably threaten to hack something and get her revenge cyberly if she knew her embarrassment amused him, encouraged him, but that would just be comfort as well. Oh, he knew that they still had a long road before them – after all, he was pretty sure that Felicity hadn't even allowed herself to cry yet, but at least he was starting to see the road again.

"I'm sorry," Felicity's apology brought Oliver back to the moment. "I seriously should come with a warning label: 'If engaged in conversation, may show signs of in foot-in-mouth syndrome... and, when I say may, I mean will. Ask your brother. I have absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter."

"Well, considering how little my brother actually says, I'm sure it's a good balance for the two of you."

"As his friend, of course."

Thea grinned. "Uh huh."

"So, yeah, anyway..." Felicity hitched her thumb over her shoulder. "I just wanted to tell you that I was her. Or that she was me." She quirked her brows – first the left, then the right, and then the left again – as she debated over what she had said, apparently electing to just go with it, because, when she spoke again, Felicity moved on. "And now I'm just going to leave you and Oliver alone again. Carry on. Pretend I didn't just interrupt a totally personal and private conversation. Oh, and that I'm not able to hear through the door. Maybe I'll even go sit in the bathroom. Just knock... or yell... when you're done, and I'll know that it's safe to..."

"You know," Thea finally interjected, putting Felicity out of her babbling misery. "You're like sneaky pretty."

Felicity tilted her head to the side... much like she had the day they first met when he fed her one of his worst cover stories... and, considering how bad he was at lying to her, that was saying something. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

Thea ignored the question. "I guess that's why I didn't recognize you from the pictures the newspapers have been printing. Usually, I just watch the news, but then I can't pick and choose what stories I listen to, and I really don't want to hear _again _how I'm the spawn of Satan. And then I can't very well just go online, because someone who shall remain nameless... but let's just say that the playground can be a very confusing place for him... had his driver fairly kidnap me, so I wasn't even able to grab my tablet before being taken bodily from the only home I've ever known. Anyway," she paused, smiled. "It's the black and white. You just... you need to be in color to be given total justice.. And I guess I didn't connect your name in the articles to the hospital, because, well... why would I?"

Felicity looked at him, confused. "Right...?" Apparently, she could dish out the rambling, but she couldn't take it in return.

He was about to cross the room and save her from his sister – because, really, one should only be exposed to Thea Queen in small increments as one was first getting to know her, but then his sister held up a hand, waving dismissively over her shoulder without even glancing in his direction. "You can leave now, Ollie. Go do... something. Somewhere else."

"But...?"

"Felicity and I are going to have some girl time together – braid our hair, trade embarrassing stories about you, maybe order some room service off the dessert menu."

"Thea, it's ten o'clock in the morning."

"Which means that it's the perfect time for some triple fudge chocolate cake with buttercream frosting and a hazelnut ganache."

He met Felicity's gaze, and she nodded, eyes and mouth soft with understanding and permission. So, he did what his sister told him to do. He grabbed his keys and his wallet off the console table by the door, and he headed out. He needed to go see his mother, and he'd stop by the house to pick up some of Thea's things. Maybe it'd soften her up a little bit towards him or, at least, bribe her into sharing Felicity's time and attention with him.

The last thing he heard as he left the suite was his sister saying to Felicity, "and I can't wait to get my hands on all that hair of yours."

Shutting the door softly behind him, Oliver smirked. Felicity had _no idea _what she had just gotten herself into by agreeing to spend her day with Thea. But it would be good for the two of them; it'd be good for all of them.

…

Oliver never expected feelings to be uncomplicated. They weren't before the island, and they definitely would never be again after the island, but, if he had one relationship that he thought could be simple and straightforward, it was with his mother. Or... it should have been with his mother.

Forget the fact that he was keeping a large part of himself a secret from her. Yes, that was a not so slight complexity, but she was _his mother_. She was supposed to love him no matter what – lies, and vendettas, and secret identities be damned. And perhaps she would. But what if his feelings for her weren't as uncomplicated as a son's love for his mother should be; what if he couldn't look past her own... complexities?

As Oliver waited for the guards – _prison guards_ – to bring his mother into the visiting room, he tried to pinpoint just what he was feeling, just what he expected from their upcoming meeting. He thought about everything they had shared and not shared with each other over the years. He thought about five years of missing her, of wanting to see her again, of being a better son for her – a son she could be proud of. But, most of all, he thought about Felicity.

So far, there were more than 400 people dead and several hundred more missing from the Glades because of his mother's actions, but all he could think about was one still very much alive yet traumatized woman – about screaming red lines upon delicate wrists that never should have been bound; about a lip still too tender to be nervously mauled in what should have been an adorable habit; about nails once always painted in bright, vibrant hues but now dull, and brittle, and plain clutched tightly against his.

Realistically, Oliver knew that The Undertaking had nothing to do with Tommy raping Felicity, yet emotionally...? There were those tricky, pesky feelings again. Emotionally, he was struggling with that separation. He learned about Felicity's attack on the same night that his mother's actions ripped his city, his home, apart. He heard Tommy's confession on the same night that his mother's own confession saved thousands of lives she otherwise would have been a party to murdering. Logically, the two events weren't actually connected, but logic had been thrown out the window a long time ago. And love? Love was never logical.

"Oliver," his mother breathed out in relief, in gratitude. She moved to instinctively open her arms to embrace him, but the cuffs around her wrists prevented such movement. He reacted automatically as well, rising from his seat and bending forward slightly at the waist to dance a dutiful kiss upon her cheek. He noticed that she smelled differently – still clean, still soft, but different; she didn't smell like his mother anymore. Rather, she smelled like a stranger. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to see you, though I wish that Thea... well, anyway. We have much to discuss, and I'm sure your sister has her reasons for not coming to visit."

Thea did, and Oliver understood those reasons. He even sympathized with them. But there was a part of him which held out hope that his mother was still somewhere inside the woman sitting across from him. That part was the five years on the island that he was holding onto. His mother was so wrapped up in how he had been able to survive that to just... give up on her would have been like giving up on what he was still fighting for.

" … though I must say that I had hoped to have seen you before now. However, I understand you've been... distracted."

Returning to the present, to what his mother was saying, Oliver blinked. He opened his mouth to speak, but then no sound escaped. He knew exactly what his mother was not so subtly hinting at, and, frankly, due to his own mixed up feelings, he knew the last thing they should discuss was Felicity. So, after a brief yet awkward pause of silence, he changed the subject. "I spoke with the family attorneys this morning, and they think that you should consider hiring a defense lawyer that specializes in... cases such as yours. They've compiled a list." Reaching beside him, Oliver picked up the folder he had brought with him to the prison, sliding it across the table so his mother could take it. However, she was now chained to the table and incapable of opening the folder on her own. Somehow, he had missed that. So, he did it for her and then sat back once more, needing to keep his physical distance.

His mother didn't even glance down. "This can wait."

"But the sooner..."

She cut him off. "Oliver."

He regarded her face – a face he knew so well, yet... didn't. Brows raised, lips pursed, Moira Queen looked indignant. He'd be lying if he said it was a foreign expression, that he hadn't seen that particular blend of anger and frustration flashed in his direction many times over the years – both before and after the island. Of all the ways that he had anticipated his mother looking at him from the wrong side of a prison table, however, indignant wasn't one of them. She showed absolutely no remorse, and, instead, acted like he was the one who had something to apologize for.

"Just what do you think you're doing exactly?"

Any ounce of sympathy or affection he had been feeling fled in the face of her ambiguous accusation. Sitting up straight, posture rigid, Oliver observed his mother closely, gaze narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"With everything facing this family, facing Queen Consolidated, you... tie yourself to this girl, to this... lying opportunist?"

"Mom," he stated calmly, bit out calmly. Hands clenched into fists to the point of pain, to the point of his nails drawing blood from his palms, Oliver did everything within his power to retain control of his temper.

"No, you listen to me, Oliver Queen. I am your mother, and I know what's best for you."

Eyes flashing, body vibrating, he met his mother's gaze unflinchingly. "So, was it for me that you helped Malcolm Merlyn kill hundreds of people?"

Moira sighed wearily. "We've talked about this. I've explained. I did everything I could to prevent the loss of life, and thousands more would be dead right now if I hadn't. But we're not talking about me right now, Oliver; we're talking about you. I can't believe you would... Tommy is your best friend, and this..."

"Her name is Felicity," he interrupted.

"Oh, trust me, I remember her name," his mother said sarcastically. While Oliver could detect notes of deeper meaning in her words, he couldn't focus on that.

"Yes, Tommy _was _my best friend, but he's dead now, and, even if he wasn't... Felicity _is _my friend. She has been there for me so much – perhaps more than anyone else – since I've... been back, and I..."

"So, you'll just swallow any line she'll feed you. Oh, I get it," his mother scoffed dismissively. "She'll flash those big, blue eyes at you, and she'll make you feel so important – like you're the only man who can keep her safe. And you need that, don't you, Oliver? You need to feel needed. But Felicity Smoak is not sweet; she's not innocent." He had no idea how to respond to his mother's remarks. Hell, Oliver wasn't even sure if he _wanted _to. He was so close to just standing up and walking away, but then she started speaking again. "Didn't you ever question why Walter and I got divorced?"

"I think your role in his kidnapping might have played a part," Oliver snapped.

His mother sighed contritely. "It did, and I will always regret that, but the other reason – the thing we couldn't get past – was... Well, you see..." As his mother looked away, Oliver just knew what was coming next. Whereas a week prior he wouldn't have been able to see the act she was putting on, he could now, and he flinched even before the words left her mouth. "Walter had an affair." Her voice lowered, became affected, and offended, and so many other disgusting things, because they were all fake. "With Miss Smoak." He went to protest, he went to call her the liar that she was, but then she was talking _again_, and Oliver felt like the ground was suddenly tilting beneath him. "And now she's... crying rape and dragging your best friend – a good man's – name through the mud, and she has you so wrapped around her little finger that you can't see the truth, and she's going to do the same thing to you, Oliver, if you don't extricate yourself from this... web she's spun around you. She'll hurt you, and she'll bleed you dry, and, when everything is said and done, you'll have nothing and no one left, because she'll make sure of it... just like she... Oh, sweetheart," Moira cooed, reaching for his hand, but he pushed away from her; he pushed away from the table and stood up. "I'm so sorry."

"Do you really think I'm this... stupid, that I would just swallow all your lies – again – and... what? Push Felicity out of my life because you – a mass murderer – told me to?" Before she could respond, he rushed to do so for her. "But why wouldn't I, right? I mean, I've listened to your lies for _months. _And it worked before – blaming your actions on your husband's infidelity and making me feel sorry for you, so why wouldn't it work again? But you made one miscalculation, _mother_. You lied about Felicity this time, and she's the only woman in my life who has _never _lied to me."

Whereas just moments before his mother had appeared timid and hurt, there was steel lacing her words now. "That doesn't negate the fact that she will destroy you, that this little plan of yours to get control of Merlyn Global via a civil suit is going to backfire in your faces."

"Did it ever occur to you that Felicity is telling the truth, that Tommy really did rape her?"

"Really, Oliver, that's immaterial at this point. What concerns me is your reaction to her accusation."

"We didn't do this," he exploded, throwing his hands out in exasperation. When the guard stepped forward to intercede, Oliver took a deep breath, reigning in his temper. Still, he remained standing. "We didn't go to the police. We're not going after Merlyn Global. This is... this is all Laurel. She found out, and she didn't react well, and now the press have a hold of her story, and Felicity is just... This is the last thing she needed." Shaking away thoughts of Felicity's pain and grief, he refocused upon his mother. "And this – you – are the last thing _I _need right now."

He took a step back – several steps back, and then scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling so unbelievably exhausted, and defeated, and irate, yet he couldn't very well unleash his fury in the middle of a maximum security prison – not as Oliver Queen, not when visiting his mother, and certainly not in broad daylight. "Look over that folder. Pick a lawyer. I'll send one of the family's attorneys out to see you later in the week, and they'll get the ball rolling on your defense."

"And you," his mother wanted to know.

"I'm... trying to figure something out for Queen Consolidated. Somebody has to clean up your mess, because there are too many people depending upon our family, and we've already taken too many jobs away from too many people... not to mention lives, but that's a whole different matter and something I can't make up for. I'm hoping Walter will help me, but, then again, you burned that bridge, too, so we'll have to see. I'm going to take care of Thea, and I'm going to help Felicity, and, as for you...? Well, I'll pay for your defense. But that's it. I won't be coming back here again. I... can't, not after what you've done, what you just said. I don't trust you, and I don't... like you. I don't know you."

"Oliver, I'm your mother!"

His back was already turned towards her, but he could hear the first genuine strains of emotion flutter through Moira's words. Her voice broke as she leveled her too little, too late plea. His steps only faltered for a second, his eyes fluttering shut in temporary regret. Oh, he knew this pain of his mother's betrayal and the loss of what was perhaps his last shred of innocence would probably always be with him – that he would feel it keenly later and again and again in the years to come, but, in that moment, he chose to focus on something else, on anything else, on his rage. It was comforting in its familiarity. So, standing up straight and rolling back his shoulders, Oliver walked away from the woman who had raised him, never once looking back as she continued to call his name.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Sometimes it felt like he spent more time in the SCPD precinct now voluntarily than he had before while under arrest... and that was saying something.

"Can't say I haven't been expecting to see your ugly mug darken my desk, but, to tell you the truth, I thought this visit would have come sooner."

Lance didn't even give him a chance to speak first. "We need to talk."

Quentin stood. "Yeah, well, I don't think this is a conversation either of us want the rest of the department to hear, so let's go outside."

Oliver turned on his heel and walked away. Lance followed until they got to the hallway, and then the older man's voice captured his attention once more. "Unless you want to give the vultures more fodder, I suggest we take this to the roof."

And then it was Lance leading him, and Oliver couldn't help but notice the irony of the situation. After so many other meetings between the two of them on so many other rooftops... only Lance had been unaware that it was Oliver lurking beneath the Hood, this time it was the cop who was suggesting the private meeting place. If Quentin only knew... but, then, if he knew, Oliver wouldn't be going outside; he'd be getting locked up for good.

They were climbing stairs when Lance tossed more of his patented, pointed remarks over one of his shoulders back towards Oliver. "So, I heard about your visit earlier to see Mommy Dearest... only, I guess Mama Queen prefers earthquake machines to metal hangers."

"Your point?"

"The guards were lenient about your little outburst today because your mother isn't their favorite inmate right now, but lose your temper again and there will be consequences – like your visitation rights will be terminated."

"Yeah, really don't think that's going to be a problem, Detective." He aimed for dismissive, but it came across as bitter.

Mercifully... for both of their sakes, because neither he nor Quentin wanted a heart to heart with the other, Lance ignored the slip. "Actually, it's Officer again. I got demoted."

"Then why are you...?"

"Here and not on the streets," Lance interrupted, finishing the question for him. "Why am I investigating your friend's case and not writing parking tickets?" He answered his own inquiry. "You can thank your mother for that. You see, initially I was suspended, but that didn't last twelve hours before your mother decided to level a good portion of the city, and then it was all hands on deck... even those hands stripped of their badges. And I'm doing a detective's work on an officer's salary, because somebody has to. Thousands of people are homeless, and jobless, and pissed off, so, surprise-surprise, crime in Starling City is more rampant than it's ever been."

Lance pushed open an emergency fire door, and they moved out into the afternoon sun. "But that's not what you came to talk to me about."

"You told Laurel."

"Uh, no I didn't," Quentin argued. "Unlike someone on this roof – and I'm not pointing fingers here, I actually have _some _principles. And my daughter has never needed me to sniff out a case."

And, just like that, Oliver's anger was forced to recede. Oh, it was still there, simmering under the surface, but Lance wasn't its rightful target, and taking his irritation out on the cop would only make the situation worse for everyone. Plus, there was a piece he was missing – several, perhaps, and Lance was as good of a source as anyone else. "Then how did she...?"

Once more, Lance cut him off. "Boy, you and my daughter really have drawn battle lines, haven't you? I've been waiting for this moment in your relationship for years – thought it'd be a happy day, you know. But you're still here, and she's still miserable, and life still sucks. So, there you have it."

To ground himself, Oliver momentarily looked skyward before allowing his eyes to fall shut and for a heavy breath to escape his clenched jaw. "How did Laurel find out?"

"Seems as though my daughter already has herself a new job... in the DA's office."

"And this... ridiculous idea that Felicity is lying in an effort to go after Merlyn Global?"

With a weary sigh, all of Quentin's bravado disappeared. "Laurel's pretty pissed off right now. She's pissed at your family for obvious reasons, she's pissed at Tommy for saving her life and then dying, she's pissed at the Hood because she blames him for not getting Tommy out of that building, she's pissed at me for... well, for more reasons than I have the energy to fight against right now. Let's just say that she's pissed at the world. Plus, she's grieving. Plus, she's lugging around a whole mountain of guilt – about what I don't think I want to know. Plus, she's liquored up."

"What?"

"Oh yeah," Lance nodded. And, for the first time, Oliver noticed just how exhausted the older man looked. His eyes were bloodshot and had bags underneath them, his skin pale and sallow. The clothes he wore looked to be more stale than the sludge disguised as coffee that the department provided. "She's been as drunk as a skunk practically since your mother along with Malcolm Merlyn made The Glades go boom."

"But, when she confronted Felicity and I at Tommy's grave, it was around lunch time."

"It's called day drinking, Queen. I'd think you'd be familiar with it."

He gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes. "It's no excuse."

"You're right," Lance surprised him by agreeing with him. "It's not."

"And what she's doing to Felicity isn't helping anybody, least of all Laurel."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

Nodding before turning to stalk away, Oliver paced for several minutes. Quentin was quiet, allowing him the chance to organize his thoughts. "She went to the press, too, didn't she?" He already knew the answer to his question, but he still sought confirmation anyway.

"There's been no leak from the department, and, given the angle they're coming after you and Miss Smoak, I think my daughter as the anonymous source would be a safe bet."

He wanted to hit something, his rage resurfaced. "This is the last thing Felicity needs right now."

"It's certainly not helping your cause with the public either," Lance pointed out none too gently.

Oliver waved him off. "If you think I care..."

"How'd the two of you meet, anyway?" Caught off guard by Quentin's question, Oliver paused in mid-step and turned, once more, to face the cop. "You and Miss Smoak," Lance prompted. "She's not your usual partner in crime."

If the other man only knew how true his own words were... "Felicity's very good at her job, and you know us Queens. We only use and want the best." Oliver went for flippant, but Lance didn't buy it.

"Uh huh." The disdainful mumbling was accompanied by an equally scornful expression.

For some reason, Oliver found himself offering more of an explanation. "When I got back, I needed some help with some tech issues. Walter recommended Felicity."

"Those are some computer skills if you went from asking for her help to living with her."

"We're not... She's... I mean, it's..." And then he just dropped all pretenses. "Look, Felicity – she's... real. She's smart, and she's funny, and she was the only person – the _only _person – who didn't expect something from me, who didn't approach me with all these preconceptions of who I was supposed to be. With her, I didn't have to live down to the hype, or try to make up for what I'd done wrong in the past, or even live up to expectations that she really didn't think I could meet. I was just me, and that was enough for her. Do you have any idea how good that felt? How addictive that was; is?"

By the time Oliver fell silent once again, he wasn't the only one shocked by everything that he had revealed. But Lance hid his surprise well, staring at him like he didn't even recognize Oliver. And maybe he didn't. Maybe that was as close as Quentin could come to admitting that the man who had come back from the island was different than the boy who went there and, on the way, killed his daughter. And maybe that moment that passed between them did more to reassure Oliver that, though he still had a long way to go, he was at least on the right track.

Finally, Lance spoke. "That sure is one hell of an island you were stranded on."

The remark didn't make him feel uncomfortable, because it wasn't leading. Lance wasn't looking for more information; he wasn't seeking Oliver's deepest, darkest secrets or asking him to share the story of the five years he had lost. Instead, he was just making an observation like only Quentin Lance could.

Shaking off his thoughts and clearing his throat, Lance offered, "I'll keep you posted on Miss Smoak's case, let you know when she can return to her apartment. But it'll take a little while. There was... a lot for CSU to go over, to gather, and I swear the lab's always backed up. Even if we put a rush on the tests..."

"I understand." And he did. "Plus, I don't think Felicity's in any hurry to go back."

"Can't say I blame her."

With that, Oliver tipped his head in recognition and then turned to leave. It wasn't until his hand was gripping the door's handle that Lance spoke up again. "I think you'll know how much it pains me to admit this, but you've been... good with her. With Miss Smoak." Just as quickly as the softness had appeared in Lance's voice, it was replaced with ridicule. "Don't screw it up."

Unfortunately, that was going to be easier said than done.

Opening the door, Oliver left the roof, not stopping until he was outside, in his car, and on the road again. He had one more stop to make before going back to the hotel, before going back to his sister and Felicity.

…

Her skin felt like it was stretched too tight.

All Felicity wanted to do was break away from, break out of it, but she couldn't. She was trapped.

There were moments when she felt like herself, but they were few and far between. They were with Oliver. But she couldn't expect him to always be there. In fact, there was a part of Felicity that was waiting for him to leave – to either push her away or run away himself. So, she tried not to crowd him; she tried not to cling too closely.

That's why she had agreed to spend her morning with Thea. While Oliver had gone to see his mother, she and his little sister spent their time doing those things typical of girl-bonding sessions... or so Felicity assumed. Maybe she was soft and feminine now, but Felicity had never been one for sleepovers and hair braiding, for gossip sessions and friendship bracelets. She liked her computers, and she liked her books, and she liked her television shows and movies. She'd rather spend twenty minutes shopping online than wasting an entire day traipsing through the store.

So, she had allowed Thea – bright and shining Thea – to guide their time together, a willing if not quite enthusiastic participant. But eventually the younger woman's sheer force of personality just became too much. Though sweet, Thea was also sarcastic, and funny, and brash. She was smart, too, and she quickly saw through Felicity's too rigid smile and her forced patience. The Felicity she was before the rape would have reveled in spending time with the youngest Queen; the Felicity she was now just felt overshadowed and intimidated by her.

Despite her sympathy and despite her warmth – both things that Thea had in abundance, there was also grief and doubt swirling beneath the teen's kindness – grief over not only the loss of someone she loved but also of her sureness that Tommy was someone that she wanted to and should love. As for her doubt, it didn't spring from the same place as Laurel's, and it wasn't even as though Thea questioned the validity of Felicity's claims. Instead, she just... didn't understand. She couldn't reconcile the man she knew with the monster he had become during the last hours of his life, and she didn't know of the true depth of Felicity's relationship with Oliver, so she couldn't grasp just how the three of them had come to find themselves sharing a hotel suite together.

Eventually, it just became too much – pretending not to see those things that Thea was trying oh so very hard yet failing miserably at hiding from her. She had felt suffocated. And then morning had stretched into afternoon, and Oliver remained gone, not calling or texting to say when he'd be back or what he was doing. It wasn't like she expected him to report in with her or ask for her permission to go somewhere or to have some time to himself, but Felicity found the separation to be too much, too soon. Consequently, despite her best intentions, she found her gaze straying towards the door and seeking out clocks, her attention diverted.

When Digg had knocked on the suite's door, Felicity had flown from her seat, eager for any distraction yet hoping that it was Oliver. He had a key, but so did Digg. They both tended to knock just so that she wouldn't become startled – something that happened far too much and far too easily. But her body had yet to catch up with her mind when it came to her friend. It was used to being excited to see him, relaxed in his presence, but, as soon as Diggle stepped through the door, Felicity felt the tension, the confusion, the insecurity that she was never supposed to feel with John.

He was an unknown, though. She didn't know how to react around him, because she hadn't talked to him; she wasn't sure if he _knew_ about what had happened to her... or if he just suspected because of the articles. It wasn't that she was intentionally trying to keep the rape a secret from Digg, but she also wasn't sure if she could talk about it with her friend. With Oliver... well, he had just found out. She had never intended for him to know, but then he did, and she took comfort in the fact that he was aware yet she hadn't been burdened with telling him. Plus, Felicity felt that, if anyone could understand the devastation of Tommy's actions upon her, it was Oliver. Their experiences were different but their results so very similar. While Digg had been to war, while he had seen and done things no person should ever have to see or do, while he had been changed by those events, to Felicity, he still felt... whole – like, no matter what, he had always managed to hold onto who he was.

In contrast, there were moments when Felicity didn't even recognize herself.

But thankfully, John only came to tell them that they were moving hotels – that the press were starting to catch wind of their location, that it was time to move, and that they needed to pack. Felicity had been way too grateful for the task. Not only did it allow her to slip away from Thea, but it gave her something to focus on – something physical, and productive, and necessary. While she had absolutely no interest in her job at QC, she was also bored and tired of feeling useless. Packing wasn't much, but it was better than doing nothing, and the rote activity provided a blessed distraction from thinking – always thinking, too much thinking. So, Felicity packed her things, and she packed Oliver's, too, surprising herself with how non-reactive she was towards doing something so... intimate for the man she knew would only ever be her friend.

The move to the different hotel had gone seamless. It helped that it was just Felicity and Thea, that Digg had forgone using one of the Queen's many cars or even Felicity's or his own and was, instead, relying upon rentals. They checked in under another guard's name, they unpacked, and then everything was exactly the way it was an hour before – different rooms, different furniture, but the same choking loneliness and monotony. And still no word from Oliver.

Felicity had done her best to ignore the way her body itched to flee – to run, and seek, and hide. She locked herself in the bedroom she had instinctively unpacked both her and Oliver's things in, and she paced. She chewed her short and unpainted nails, and she tried to shrink in upon herself. She stared out the windows, and then she hid away from the rest of the world by closing the drapes. She showered; she changed; she took out, and she refolded, and then she put their things away all over again. But, eventually, she hit a wall, and then she snapped. She grabbed her keys and silently walked, head and eyes cast down, towards the door, letting herself out without making a sound, without telling anyone. She made it to the elevator before she was stopped.

"Felicity?"

"I have to get out of here," she panted in response to Diggle's unvoiced question, in response to the censure she could feel coming off of him in waves. "I need..." She needed Oliver, but she couldn't – wouldn't – tell their friend that. Her need made her angry, and she grasped onto that ire with both hands, clutching it tightly. Fury was familiar. It was comforting. It was... all consuming, blocking out every other emotion she wasn't ready or willing to confront. "I want to go to the foundry. Please." He didn't say anything, didn't move. "_Please_, John."

"Alright, you can go." She should have been perturbed that he was granting her permission, because she hadn't asked for his consent – just that he not fight her, but Felicity... didn't care. She was leaving. "But I'm driving you, and, if Oliver's not there, then I'm staying with you. Just let me tell Thea's guard..."

He stepped away, and she finally exhaled, wrapping her arms around her torso and bending over slightly in relief. When she had realized that she wanted to go to the lair, it wasn't because she thought Oliver might be there; she just knew that, if she couldn't be with him, if she couldn't be herself, she wanted to be the one place that would remind her of who they both had been before everything... fell apart.

Less than a minute later, they were on their way. From the elevator, to the parking garage, even during their ride into The Glades, Diggle never talked. Whether he was at a loss for what to say or sensed that she craved the silence – _his _silence, Felicity was just grateful for the reprieve. Once they arrived at the abandoned and demolished club, he just unlocked the doors, remaining in the car as she made her away across the parking lot and through the side entrance.

Oliver's bike was there which meant so, too, was its rider.

Even after she was inside, Felicity could feel Digg's watchful, concerned gaze singeing her back. She allowed it to fuel her ire. Because she wanted to confide in her friend, but she didn't want for there to be anything to tell him. Because she didn't want her pain and torture to be so obvious that everyone pitied her even if they didn't know why. Because, yes, she had been hurt, but she wasn't broken, and she wasn't going to fall apart if she wasn't held together with worry and compassion. Because John didn't ask, and she didn't want him to.

Somewhere, in the back of Felicity's mind, she realized that the basement was well lit – whether the power was back on or the lights were running off a generator, she didn't know. Nor, did she care. Because she wasn't alone, and Oliver was there, and she could breathe again.

Felicity was only halfway down the stairs when she saw him – sweaty and shirtless, totally oblivious to her presence, blind and battered, bleeding, lost in his rage.

She gasped.

He spun around quickly, his hands, which had just been destroying, falling limply to his sides. "Felicity...? Chest heaving, eyes apologizing, Oliver sighed. "I'm... I'm sorry."

And then she laughed. Walking down the stairs – one hand on the rail, the other compacted into a fist, Felicity never blinked. Or looked down. Or shied away from his gaze. "For what?"

"For scaring you."

"You," she promised him. "This," she glanced around the rubble and wreckage at their feet – wreckage he was contributing to in his wrath. "Your anger," she finished, coming to stand directly before him. "It doesn't scare me."

Oliver's brow creased, the storm of resentment turning his blue eyes silver before melting into the brooding slate she knew so well. "Why not?"

"Because that's all I think I am now."

With that, she turned away from him – she turned around, and she turned her back, and she found the first thing still untouched by either the earthquake or the man haunted by it, and she lashed out. With a seething scream, she pushed, and she threw, and she slammed, and she destroyed. And, all the while, Oliver just let her be.

It wasn't until she went to overturn the medical gurney that Felicity froze. With eyes wide with tears she could no longer hold back, her shrieks turned to sobs, and her hands fell softly upon the metal where Oliver had nearly bled out months before. But then that very same heart was embracing her; was wrapping around her; was holding her up, and together, and aloft.

And Felicity finally cried.


	7. Chapter Six

_Hello Everyone,_

_Just a quick word... I realize it's been longer than normal since I last posted, but that's just because I've been posting other stories. I've been working on this one, however. In fact, I'm in the final stretch of writing it. (I like to work quite a bit ahead.) Anyway, there has been some concern expressed about whether or not I'll finish the story, and I wanted to reassure everyone that I most definitely will; I ALWAYS will finish the stories that I start... even ones that have been on hiatus for years. That's not even just a promise to my readers but a promise to myself as well. In the meantime, an update. :-) And it's an extra long one, too. (I'd like to claim that I planned that, but it was purely a happy coincidence.) Enjoy and thanks for all your wonderful support, comments, and encouragement!_

_~Charlynn~_

**Chapter Six**

Digg was waiting for them when they got back to the hotel.

Massive arms crossed over his chest, his friend and, to the rest of the world, bodyguard was smirking, but there was no amusement or even warmth in the expression... at least, not for him. When Diggle's gaze slid momentarily towards Felicity, he softened somewhat but always remained stoic. And he didn't look at her for long – almost like he couldn't allow himself to go _there_. To think about _that_. To face what had been done to _her_.

Oliver couldn't blame him.

Yet, he really didn't want to hear whatever it was the other man had to say that evening. And he had no doubt that John was gearing up to tell him something – some truth that Oliver felt like he couldn't face yet, but Digg wouldn't care, and he'd force him to face it. Knowing Diggle, he wouldn't even really have to say all that much to get his point across either. Digg had this way where he could just look at you, raise an eyebrow, and get you to do all the talking yourself. When it worked in Oliver's favor, it was tremendously convenient; when it didn't...? Well, it pissed him off.

"You know, I must say I'm liking this hotel thing. Only one entrance and exit makes it a hell of a lot harder for you to give me the slip when I want to talk to you."

Deciding that not engaging was his best chance of getting out of whatever conversation Digg had planned for them, Oliver locked down his gaze, lowered his head, and focused on the door in front of him. If he held onto Felicity, who was cocooned against his side and wrapped under his left arm, just that might tighter, too, Oliver felt like no one could blame him for such a reaction. "Not tonight, Digg."

"Oh, yes, tonight. If you think I'm going to let this..."

Oliver didn't need to look at his friend to know that he, too, was shocked when it was Felicity who spoke up against and interrupted him. "John, he said no. Not tonight. You can talk to him tomorrow."

The ex-soldier softened his tone. "Felicity, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be..." Diggle's words died away, and, still avoiding looking at him, Oliver heard him exhale harshly. "Look, it won't take long, and it's important."

"Yeah, well, not as important as getting him stitched back up," Felicity countered.

"What?"

"He popped a few stitches... earlier."

"And just what exactly were the two of you doing that resulted in the stitches _I _put in getting ripped?"

For the answer to that question, Oliver finally glanced up. What he found was an irritated Felicity, who looked both exasperated and uncomfortable, and a regretful John. Apparently, even Digg had the capability of speaking without thought.

"We were... reorganizing," Felicity finally responded, her proud chin coming up defensively. The sight, knowing just how angry and sad she was underneath her sudden bravado, was perhaps the most heartbreaking thing Oliver had ever seen.

"Well, then, you're probably exhausted," Diggle replied smoothly, easily falling back into his unflappable temper once again. "Why don't you go inside, and Oliver and I will follow shortly. While we talk, I'll stitch him back up."

"I can do it."

"Really, Felicity, I got this."

"I said I'd do it, Digg," she exploded. Suddenly agitated, Felicity pulled away from Oliver, making him realize that, just as much as he had been supporting her, she had been supporting him, too, because he stumbled slightly, righting himself by moving to lean up against the wall. "I'm not helpless, you know. I can do things. I can do _a lot_ of things. I'm not..."

"I know, Felicity; we know," Digg said calmly, soothingly, but somehow he didn't come across as patronizing. "And I didn't mean anything by it except that I know you're not a big fan of needles."

Silently, Oliver watched as Felicity rolled her shoulders back, meeting Diggle's concerned gaze without flinching, without blinking. "Suddenly needles? Yeah... not that scary anymore."

He wasn't sure what had just passed between them – a challenge, an acceptance, a confession, an avoidance, but, whatever it was, John nodded his assent, and Felicity slipped through the door. As she left Oliver there to deal with Diggle on his own, the man himself said, "find a suture kit, fill a sink with hot water, and get some wash cloths. By the time you're ready for him, Oliver and I will be finished talking." The door clicking shut behind her was the sound of Felicity's acquiescence reverberating through the otherwise empty and silent hallway.

And then it was just the two of them.

Normally, at night, especially when all three of them – Thea, Felicity, and himself – were there, Digg would have two guards posted at the door and one at the elevator, not trusting the other personnel with their safety nearly as much as he trusted himself. And Oliver had no doubt that the three men who were working the night shift that evening were around somewhere – perhaps doing perimeter sweeps outside or reviewing protocols with the hotel's security, but they'd stay gone until Digg either didn't check in or told them to return to their stations, Oliver's friend having arranged for the privacy on purpose... much to his chagrin.

"Man, I really hope you know what you're doing?"

That was not what Oliver was anticipating. He thought Diggle would have something to say about his visit with his mother or perhaps his trip to the precinct that day, because he also had no doubt that his friend was perfectly aware of everything that went on in his life. John had more connections, more sources, more instinct than anyone Oliver had ever known before. Because the words caught him off guard, Oliver found himself looking up, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't know what's going on between you and that broken girl who just walked through the door, but..."

"Felicity's not broken." The words left his mouth through a clenched jaw, a grimace.

"Really, because, from where I'm standing..."

"From where you're standing," Oliver interrupted his friend for a second time, ire piqued. "You had a front row seat to the tongue lashing Felicity just gave you. How you could ever think she's broken..."

"Like I was saying," that time it was Digg who interjected. "All that bravado just a moment ago was to hide a whole hell of a lot of pain."

"Of course she's in pain," he snapped. "But pain doesn't equal being broken."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't take _your_ word for it, Oliver."

In response, he exhaled harshly, reaching up to rub his hands wearily over his face. "Look, it's been a long day... What do you want, Diggle?"

"I want to know that you're capable of handling this. That you know what you're doing. I want to know that, someday, Felicity is going to get through this and put it behind her. I want to know how the hell I'm supposed to be okay with Merlyn already being dead, because now I can't kill him myself. And I want to know – tomorrow morning, next week, a month from now – that you're not going to take off, that you're not going to run away because you can't handle everything that's happening."

"Maybe I should," Oliver whispered. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, allowing his head to fall backwards and dully slam into the drywall several times.

"Oliver, man, you can't."

"Why not, Diggle?" And then he was surging forward, all traces of exhaustion and discomfort disappearing in light of finally getting his feelings off his chest. "She'd be better off without me, don't you see that? They both would be," he waved towards the door behind which both his sister and Felicity were ensconced away, safe. "This, what happened to her, it's my fault. I did this – my selfishness; my inability to think just five minutes ahead; my... obsession with going back, with thinking that everything could be the way it once was if I could convince everyone in my life that I'm still that same guy; my utter blindness to just how much things have really changed since...

"Just stop it, Oliver," Diggle cut him off. "You can't do this; you can't do this to her."

"What?"

"I know it's second nature for you to blame yourself for everything. I also know that, even if I tell you it's not your fault, you won't listen. Hell, Felicity's the _only _person who can decided who's to blame for what happened to her and who isn't, but I don't even think you'd listen to her right now. But this guilt you have? It's the last thing Felicity needs." At his narrowed gaze, John further explained. "No matter what you think about yourself, you can't take Tommy's culpability away from Felicity. She blames him for what happened, not you, and she needs to blame him. He deserves it, and she deserves to have a target for all her hate, and pain, and grief, and anger. Because she's feeling all those things and more, Oliver, and, if you let your guilt consume you, then you will end up running, and that'll just add to her hurt."

"Don't you mean she'd hurt less?"

"That's not up to you to decide either, man. And, if you were going to run, then you should have done it days ago. As soon as you found out, you should have skipped town then, because, if you go now – after being there for Felicity, after supporting her, and helping her, and taking care of her, then you'll just confirm every ugly thing she thinks about herself. Plus, were you watching and talking to the same girl I was five minutes ago, because that girl? That girl is holding on by threads, and those threads are your friendship, your cause, and her need to, in turn, take care of you."

He wanted to ask what friendship, because a friend would have been there to make sure that Felicity was never hurt the way Tommy had hurt her; and he wanted to ask what cause, because he had failed Felicity, the city, and his father; and Oliver had no idea what he was supposed to do now, how he was supposed to keep fighting. But he didn't say any of this, because he recognized the truth behind Diggle's words. He also realized that his self-doubts were just that: his own burdens to bear. His friend had enough of his own worries; he didn't need to shoulder Oliver's as well. Plus, by questioning out loud those things that were grounding Felicity as she struggled to make sense of her life once again, Oliver felt like he'd be diminishing them – belittling what was important to her, and he couldn't bring himself to do that.

Finally breaking the silence that had sprung up between them after Digg finished saying his peace, Oliver cleared his throat. "I, uh, better...," nodding his over his shoulder, motioning towards the door.

"Just be careful, man."

Solemnly, he promised, "I will. I won't hurt her, Digg."

"Never intentionally, Oliver, I know that," his friend reassured him. "But I'm not just talking about Felicity right now; I'm talking about the both of you."

As Oliver slipped inside the hotel room, he thought about two things: one, he had been right to try and avoid his friend, for Diggle had, as always, mentioned truths he wasn't ready to hear; and, two, he hadn't considered that, when the dust from The Undertaking and Tommy's actions settled, his own reactions might end up hurting him just as much as they did the people he cared about. Silently, he moved his way through the suite, turning off lights as he went. By the time Oliver came to the bathroom where Felicity was waiting for him, a dull ache had settled over his chest... and not because of the wound that had come open once more. No, that tightness was acknowledgement of Digg's words.

But then Felicity turned to him, hands already reaching to tend to him, and he smiled. There was no joy in the moment, but it wasn't an empty gesture either. That, in and of itself, though, was a hollow victory.

For now, he'd take it.

And then Felicity touched him – her fingers soft, and gentle, and clean, and Oliver pushed everything else aside. Lowering himself onto the closed toilet, he sat. He closed his eyes. And he relaxed.

…

It was quiet.

It was quiet. Felicity had long since finished re-suturing and re-bandaging his wound. He was sitting on the toilet seat, head bowed, and she was kneeling before him in between his spread legs. Her fingers were rhythmically caressing the edges of gauze taped to his chest; his rested casually on top of his knees. The lights were dimmed, and their hotel suite was too many floors above and too well sound proofed against ambient noise for the traffic below to dent the silence.

It should have been awkward. But it wasn't.

Their relationship – perhaps his only one like that – was built on words... and the words left unsaid yet still expressed. It had been like that from the very beginning. Oftentimes, Felicity was responsible for most of those words, but existing together in the stillness was not something they were used to. Even when they were working together in the foundry, each focused on their own tasks, there was background noise to buffer them, to buoy them. But not that night, not in that moment.

Really, when he thought about it, Oliver realized that, since the night of The Undertaking, silence had become their predominant form of communication. Yet, despite this, there was usually something or someone else to distract them from the quiet – his worry, her preoccupation; Thea, Digg, Tommy's ghost. But those things were blissfully, inexplicably absent as they remained sitting there, neither willing to shatter the moment by admitting it was long past when they should have gone to bed or by voicing all those words that had once come so easily to them.

And words there were aplenty.

There were all the questions Oliver wanted to ask, questions with answers he really wasn't sure he could handle but questions that were choking him nonetheless. And then there was Felicity – Felicity who, if she didn't break down and talk to someone soon, would surely explode from the tension and stress of keeping everything so bottled up. Because that simply wasn't in her nature. Still, it seemed more likely that he would be the one to first breach the impasse they seemed to find themselves at, and Oliver wasn't sure what to make of their role reversal.

"I'm going into work tomorrow." Felicity's unexpected statement brought his head up with a jarring snap, the words practically echoing throughout the otherwise static bathroom. He found her studiously avoiding his gaze, her eyes locked upon her hands which were still weaving a spell of comfort over the skin above his heart. Allowing his own gaze to rest upon the very same spot, Oliver was jolted by the sharp contrast between his hardened body – scarred, tanned, and inked – and her delicate digits, her complexion as soft and creamy as pearls, the hue laced with the blue undertones of her veins. Even against his bandage, she seemed subtle and diaphanous. It wasn't until she spoke again, though, that he realized she was whispering, the mellow quality of her tone belying the strength Oliver knew she possessed. "I need to go to work tomorrow."

In response, he said the very first thing he thought of. "Why?"

Felicity sighed. One nail began to peel back a corner of the tape keeping his gauze in place before the pad of that very same finger smoothed it back out. "Hiding..." And he winced, because Oliver really didn't see Felicity staying out of the spotlight as hiding, but, if she did, he knew that perhaps he had been too protective of her. But he couldn't help it, and he certainly wouldn't apologize for it. " … especially after what happened at the cemetery... and then in the parking garage at QC... Well, I guess, for a while, I needed the hiding, too, but... I'm tired of feeling useless, Oliver; I need to be productive again. You... you're doing so much right now – trying to take care of me, of your sister, of your mother."

Even though she wasn't looking at him, Oliver felt his eyes flicker away from Felicity when she mentioned his mom. He had yet to tell her about their confrontation earlier that day (had it really just been hours prior that he had been to Iron Heights?); he had no idea how to tell her about what his mother had intimated about her.

" … and I'm used to taking care of others, of helping others." _Helping you. _"I know I'm not ready for that yet, but I at least need to feel like I'm taking care of myself, and the first step in taking care of me is going back to work."

"Are you going back to your apartment?"

"No!" Felicity rushed to reassure him. Herself. Them. And, if Oliver was caught off guard by the blazing streak of panic that swept across that one word, he didn't show it. Instead, he focused upon the relief that washed through him upon her denial.

"Good." Since she was now, _finally,_ looking at him, Oliver forced a smile and a note of levity into his words. "Because you can't leave me on my own with Thea."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Like we both don't know that Roy's in that room with her as we speak."

She wasn't telling him anything he wasn't already aware of, but Oliver bristled nonetheless. His big-brother surliness was pushed aside quickly, though, when he considered his sister's _guest_ from a different angle. "That... his being here doesn't bother you, does it?" She shook her head no, giving him a slight yet still genuine smile, and Oliver released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Changing the subject back to their original topic, he posed, "so, work, huh? Let me guess: you miss your babies."

Felicity's head titled the side, and it was so reminiscent of his very first memory of her that Oliver felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little bit. "You know, I've come to realize that I'm a bad mother." He laughed, and she protested. "No, really! I haven't thought about my QC children _at all_ – haven't missed them, haven't worried about them, but I can't stop thinking about my poor foundry dandelions."

"Dandelions?"

"You know," she urged him on. "Mama had a baby, and it's head popped off. Or, in this case, it's head got fried, smashed, and then crushed." She continued on before he could laugh, before he could tease her, before he could even really recognize that, for just a moment, she was _Felicity_ again. "I've long since noticed that I play favorites with my kids which is bad enough, but favoritism has now morphed into outright disinterest and abandonment. You should probably turn me into computer services."

Reading between the babbled lines, he asked, "so, what – is this you going into the office out of obligation, because, if so, Felicity, don't. A lot of people aren't back to work yet, and they weren't..." Swallowing thickly, he changed tracks. "Hell, my name's on the building, and I haven't given the place a second thought."

"You went into the office with me yesterday."

"Yeah, about that..."

"You totally stalked the IT department the whole time, didn't you?" He met her nonplussed accusation with an unrepentant shrug. "Oliver."

"Felicity."

"Well, you won't have to do that tomorrow, because you don't have to go with me." When he went to protest, she kept talking. "And I know that someone has to go with me because of the reporters, but just talk with Digg and see who of the guards he recommends. I know that he needs to stay with Thea here at command central, and, really, Digg doesn't need to babysit me anymore than you do."

"It's not babysitting, and I know that I don't _have _to go with you, but maybe I need to." Her screwed up face – creased brow and puckered lips – told him she didn't understand. Oliver sighed. "The company is... Well, to say that it's a mess is putting it lightly."

"Being associated with mass murder tends to do that to a business."

Her words weren't funny, but the flippancy in which they were uttered – like fortune 500 companies were often associated with leveling an entire portion of a city – made a corner of Oliver's mouth quirk upwards. "While my mother and I didn't discuss QC that much... at least not in the way that you would expect..." He could see the curiosity in her gaze. " … she did help me realize that, whether I want to or not, I need to... do something. I might not have even a single idea about where to start, but I'm going to have to figure it out. And fast."

"And you will," she reassured him, surprising Oliver when he suddenly felt one of her smaller, impossibly gentle hands wrap around and then squeeze one of his. "Might I suggest calling Walter. I think he'd be willing to help you."

Oliver stood, pulling Felicity up with him. As they turned together to walk out of the en-suite and into the bedroom they were sharing, he said, "I was thinking the same thing."

"So, see," she encouraged him. "You're already on the right track then, because, if we're sharing ideas, then your mind must be great, too, because we both know – my mind? The greatest."

The teasing, and the intellectual arrogance, and the small grins, and the companionship felt so good, felt so _normal _that, for just a moment, Oliver was able to... forget. But then he felt Felicity's hand searching for his once more after they climbed into bed, and, just as much as she needed to feel grounded by his touch, he needed to know, as he fell asleep, that she was there and safe beside him, too. Her touch, though, reminded him of what they would be doing the next day, what _she _would be doing the next day. If it were up to him, Felicity would never be hurt again. That meant no intrusive paparazzi and no judgmental co-workers, that he'd be able to keep her locked and hidden away from the rest of the world – a princess in the tower. But perhaps his need to protect her was more for him and less for Felicity, because, if she felt the need to work and be productive, then hiding could actually be preventing her from moving on and healing the way she needed to.

While Oliver was willing to accept that he had to let Felicity slowly return to her life as it was _before_... or as much as it could, that didn't mean that he couldn't be there for her while she did so. And that was why he was going to QC the next day. He wasn't lying to her when he said that he needed to take a role in the company, but Queen Consolidated's bottom line was the last thing Oliver had been concerned about until Felicity mentioned that she was going back to work. Then, it became a convenient excuse.

Sighing, Oliver forced himself to relax. Beside him, Felicity moved slightly closer. He didn't know if she sought his warm or if, maybe, she wanted to share with him a little of hers, if she wanted to reassure him. Whatever the reason, it was enough. He closed his eyes and, moments later, fell asleep.

…

Her new office wasn't perfect, but it was quiet. And it was private. And it smelled really good, too. Granted, it had been commandeered rather than awarded, but Queen Consolidated had bigger concerns than one lowly IT girl wandering outside of the nerd corral. Besides, she kind of had an 'in' with one of the owners (working secretly with – living secretly with – sleeping secretly, plantonically with did count as an 'in,' right?), so Felicity assumed she was good to...

A brisk knock had her nearly dropping her tablet and falling off her _chair_. It was too bad she wasn't more adventurous when it came to food... and, you know, a cannibal, because she was pretty sure she could chew on her own heart if she was of the mind to. Startled, her pulse was pounding, her breathing erratic, and her skin suddenly clammy. It was for these reasons that, when she finally spoke, her voice came out deeper and raspier than normal (and not because she was trying to disguise who she was). "It's occupied!"

She heard a sigh of exasperation, of relief – a very familiar sigh. Then, there was a twisting of the doorknob, but Felicity had long since made sure no one would be able to just walk into her new office. It didn't lock from the inside, but she was a creative girl. "Come on, Felicity. Let me in."

Hesitantly, she stood, making sure she was careful where and how she moved. One of the drawbacks to her new office was its size. It was less than... roomy. Removing the barricade, she quickly opened the door, peering through a crack to first make sure it was Oliver (it was), and then to make sure that no one else was looking. Satisfied that they were alone, Felicity slipped a hand out, grabbed hold of Oliver's arm, and then pulled him in after her. By the time the door was closed once more and re-barricaded, she was second-guessing her decision to invite him in. To... procure her new office in the first place. To return to QC. (Well, perhaps she had been second-guessing that last one since about 9:04 that morning.)

She avoided Oliver's piercing, intrusive, knowing gaze and fidgeted – pulling down on her already long sleeves despite knowing that between the makeup covering her wrists and the dim interior of her new office, her bruises couldn't be seen; trying to bite her still tender lip only to wince away from the habit; and shuffling her feet because, frankly, that's as far as she could move away from Oliver's looming, suddenly overpowering presence. She had always found his size to be comforting in the past. Now, it was just intimidating... not that she'd _ever _tell him that, because he'd think that he made her nervous because he was a man, because of what Tommy had done to her, and not simply because he was one of the only people who could see beneath the mask she wore. "Is it lunchtime already?"

"No," he answered succinctly. In response, she scuffed the toes of her flats upon the floor. "It's two hours passed lunch time. I missed when we were supposed to meet for lunch, because, apparently nobody who works for me – and they all were quick to remind me that I'm their boss now that everything has gone to shit – is capable of just saying that we need a miracle if we're going to keep the company from either going under or being raided. And, when I finally got the chance to come looking for you – worried because, if there's one person who would call me on being late, it's you, and I didn't even get a text message from you when 12:30 came and went, you weren't in your office."

"I, uh, needed a more peaceful place to work," Felicity offered as explanation, still refusing to meet Oliver's gaze. Even if she would have, though, her office didn't come equipped with a light fixture, so she probably wouldn't have been able to see anything anyway.

"Felicity, this is a supply closet."

It was. And, normally, their current situation would have been hilarious... and embarrassing – the two of them meeting clandestinely in a four by four space used to hold cleaning supplies, and, in the past, when Felicity had imagined being in such a situation with Oliver, it was much more... amorous. Now, she just wanted everything and everyone to disappear. Most of all, though, _she _wanted to disappear.

His tone softened. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

" … and don't say nothing," Oliver spoke over top of her denial. When she remained silent, she felt his own hand reach out to encompass one of hers, his fingers weaving between and around her digits as he gave the appendages a gentle squeeze. "Hey..."

She sniffled, looking up and then out of the corner of her eyes in an effort to stem her tears. "It was just... harder than I thought it would be."

"Coming back to work?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Heaving a frustrated sigh, Felicity dropped Oliver's hand and then circled around him. Collapsing onto her chair... Oh, who was she kidding? It was a giant box of paper towels, and it was murder on her back after fifteen minutes. Oliver took a seat beside her – he just... sat right down on the floor, thousand dollar suit and all. And then he waited patiently, silently, supportively for her to talk. When she did, she found her gaze glued to her fingers as they painfully twisted around each other, the discomfort grounding and keeping her focused.

"Everything's just... more. Closer. Louder. And it feels like I'm under a microscope – not just from the photographers, and the media, and the journalist camped out in the parking garage and down on the sidewalk but my co-workers as well. If they're not giving me these fake, sympathetic looks, then I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, because I can just feel them watching me – waiting for me to do or say something that will confirm all these things – some true, some so far from the truth that calling them lies doesn't even seem to cover it – that they're thinking about me. And then I find myself thinking that maybe they're sources, maybe they're the ones talking to the press, and I get angry – so angry that I just want to... cry, because I can't very well go around hitting people."

"Why," Oliver spoke for the first time in several minutes, interrupting her monologue. "I do."

She chuckled. "Yeah, well, you have a million-watt smile and a billion-dollar bank account. You can get away with acting like a three year old throwing a temper tantrum. I can't."

Oliver shrugged. "Actually, according to what I was told today _ad nauseam_, if I don't come up with something – and fast – to make our sales projections and, consequently, our stock price sky rocket, then those billions of dollars you refer to will be worth less than the paper they're printed on."

"So, you won't have the bank account; you'll still have the body, and, frankly, that's what I like better about you anyway."

This time, she was the one who earned a slight grin, and it felt good to be able to give that to Oliver – that, even with the world coming down around them, she could still make him smile. The moment disappeared all too quickly, though, when her tablet pinged, an alert sounding.

"Ah, but, without my bank account, you wouldn't have a job... or all of your high-priced, state-of-the-art toys. What are you working on anyway," Oliver asked. And, before she could stop him, he reached onto the shelf and picked up her tablet, his expression darkening immediately. "Felicity..."

She rushed to explain. "Obviously, I won't actually be counting today as a work day. I'll use some vacation time. Or sick leave. Or something."

"That's not..." He was distressed, and wound up, and she had done nothing to diffuse the situation. "Why are you looking at this crap?" With that, he tossed her tablet aside. She didn't even wince when it landed less than gently back upon the shelf.

"How can I not," Felicity countered. "I just... the things they're saying about me, Oliver. Most of it is ridiculous – lies, feeding off that first story that we're working together to take over Merlyn Global. But some of it...? Some of it is true. Some of it is about my life, my past, my... They know things about me that are supposed to be private and personal, and it's like a train wreck. I don't want to see it, but I can't look away. And I also can't hack them quick enough to get ahead. Just when I take down one story, five more pop up."

Taking a deep breath, she pushed on. "And I thought I could ignore it. I tried, Oliver; I really tried. But I couldn't. I was sitting there in my office... my real office, and I was trying to do... something, some legitimate work assignment, but I could hear all these... noises. People chatting, though I couldn't make out what they were saying. People laughing, though I didn't know what was so funny. Footsteps. Creaks. The traffic outside. And it was like they were talking about me, laughing about me, stalking me, watching me. The last thing I cared about was whether Janice from Human Resources figured out her password or if Kyle from Accounts Payable was backing up his work or not. All I could think about was... that," and she finished her rant with a vague gesture towards the offending devise still beeping to alert her to even more insulting articles.

But then a startling thought had her gasping. "Oh my god, Oliver. How did you find me? Did someone tell you where I was? Does someone... and now everyone... know that I spent the majority of my day hiding out in the same room where the janitors keep the toilet paper?"

"Relax," he told her, reaching out a calming hand and laying it upon her knee. A week ago, she would have burned underneath his touch – her pulse jumping, her skin flaming, but, now, Felicity just saw the fact that, instead of Oliver touching her bare skin thanks to her preferred work skirts, she was wearing pants – black, boring, safe pants. It made her feel like a coward, like the coward she was. "When I couldn't find you, I did ask around, but no one knew where you were. So, I sent security on a bogus errand and highjacked their system for a few minutes. If someone had come after you, then I needed to be able to act without suspicion from the guards who would have insisted upon calling the cops."

"Why would someone come after me?" Working through her own question, Felicity continued, "I mean, Malcolm's gone, and no one knows about us... I mean, not that there's an _us..._ but that we work together on _you know what_ stuff. Sure, Laurel hates me, but I don't really see her as a kidnap and ransom kind of girl."

Oliver frowned, but he didn't say anything. For a moment, Felicity considered pursuing his evasion and why he had been so worried, but then she really looked at him, and she noticed that he wasn't really staring at her; he was staring at her chin, and her jaw, and her neck, and her chest – places where, when the makeup faded, the trauma her body had sustained was still just as glaringly telling as it had been the night he had taken her to the hospital. Swallowing thickly, Felicity laid a hand over top of his one that was still clutching her knee. It didn't matter what faceless enemy Oliver had imagined, because they were all just a stand-in for the one neither of them had ever seen coming, the one that he couldn't save her from. Now, every threat was Tommy, and every second of every day Oliver was trying to retroactively prevent her from being hurt in the worst way a woman could possibly be hurt. He didn't just see his ex-girlfriend and the media coming after her; he saw ghosts, too... just like Felicity did.

Squeezing his hand, she confessed, "I can't work here anymore, Oliver."

By the way his head snapped upwards and his eyes widened, she could tell that she had surprised him. "What?"

"I... just... can't. I'm going to quit."

"But you love your job."

"I did," she admitted, smiling wistfully. "But now it's... just a job. Actually, no. If it was just a job, I could come in, do my work, and then go home at night like every other person in the world. But it's also a reminder, and I feel trapped here."

"That might be because we're sitting in a supply closet." When she didn't laugh or relent, Oliver asked, "what are you going to do then – look for a different job?"

"I guess," Felicity shrugged in uncertainty. "I mean, I'll need one. I have bills to pay, and, no," she warned him, cutting him off before he could even offer, "you're not giving me money. I'm no one's kept... anything, not that there's any _keeping _going on between us, and I take care of myself. Besides," Felicity tried to infuse a little levity into the conversation, tried to take the heat of the moment off of her and put it back on Oliver. "Give it a few more months, and you might need me to help you pay your bills."

"It's not a good job market right now," he pointed out. "And, if you quit but want to come back in six months or a year, I can't guarantee you that QC will be able to rehire you – let alone that you'll be able to get your old job back. They're already talking about a hiring freeze, perhaps restructuring."

"I know."

"Felicity, no other job, no other company, is going to be any less... suffocating than this one right now. Unless you plan on moving..."

"No," she interrupted, quick to reassure him. "I'm not leaving Starling City, Oliver." _I'm not leaving you; I can't leave you_. "It's my home."

"Okay. Good."

"And I know you're right... about going to work somewhere else. It's too bad I can't _illegally obtain information_ for a living, because, while I didn't miss the IT department, I do miss the basement at Verdant; I miss what we do there. At least, though, if I quit working here, it might alleviate some of the gossip about what happened, about... my rape."

Oliver was silent for several moments. Then, when he spoke, even without any lights, Felicity could see the purpose behind his words. She could see his excitement. "What if you didn't quit and I just reassigned you?"

"Oliver, this girl might walk like a blonde, and talk like a blonde, but she is nobody's secretary."

He chuckled. "No, you miss Verdant... well, its basement. And I own Verdant. Just like I own Queen Consolidated. So, if I were to reassign you to oversee the repairs to my nightclub _and _anything else that may or may not be located in the old foundry, then you could keep your job without having to come into the office everyday. Then, when Verdant is up and running again, we can re-evaluate and hopefully get you back into the IT department where you belong."

She stared at him for a beat. And then another. Mouth agape. "You do realize that the extent of my club knowledge is having the words to 'The Hippy Hippy Shake' memorized, right?"

Oliver regarded her in bafflement but didn't ask. "Felicity, you won't be managing a club; you'll be overseeing construction... which means engineering. And physics. And math."

"Oh." Starting to feel his excitement, she admitted, "that's right in my wheelhouse." Before he could say anymore, she inquired, "does this mean that we're back in the vigilante business? I mean, I know you're still hurt, and our little hidey-hole is more hole than hidey at this point, but you haven't said anything about The Hood or the list since..." Her words trailed off, the night in question not requiring anything to be said.

"I don't know," Oliver admitted honestly. "I'm not sure how I feel about... that... right now." Before she could offer her own opinion, he held up a hand, asking for her patience. "No matter what, though, I do know that it needs rebuilt – all of it. The way it is right now is a liability."

"And we just finished talking about how you might be sporting Hoover Flags before the leaves change, so just how exactly are you paying for this?"

"Verdant's insured."

"And what's below Verdant?"

Oliver stood up, holding a hand out to help Felicity stand as well. "When your Hoover flags are made of Italian silk, you can usually figure something out." Facing each other, he asked, "does this mean you'll accept the promotion?"

"Oh, so now I'm getting promoted, too? I can't wait to see what the media makes of _that_."

"Felicity."

"Fine. Yes. I accept."

"Good." She went to move back towards her _desk chair_ when Oliver cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"

She glanced up at him. "Oh, well, it's not time to leave yet, so I thought I'd just..."

"Felicity, we're leaving. Now."

If it wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, she would have taken offense at his demanding tone. "Right."

Grabbing her tablet and her bag, she followed Oliver out of the supply closet, down the hall, and onto the elevator. It wasn't until the doors opened into the parking garage and the white light of the multitude of flashbulbs blinded her that she realized Oliver was still holding her hand.


End file.
